


Elementary, My Dear Rosie

by Amalspach



Series: Elementary [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Why Did I Write This?, also dogs, also lestrade is an awkward uncle, aunt molly is aunt molly, ocs are there, rosamund watson will be a badass, sherlock would be the cool dad, you cannot convince me otherwise, you know I'm right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-05-26 02:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14990507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amalspach/pseuds/Amalspach
Summary: Most girls had ordinary relatives and only one father. Rosamund Watson was lucky enough to have one incredibly mixed up family and two fathers, all to herself. In other words, an AU taking off from the end of season four divided into three parts. Johnlock.





	1. Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any characters besides OCs. All I lay claim to is the plot.
> 
> On that note, I really love this idea, even though it's completely random and I got it during a shower. AUs in which Rosamund is present are a lot harder to find than you would expect. Anyways, sorry if this turns out awful - it wasn't planned out at all and nobody edits my work but me, so please forgive any minor problems.
> 
> I tried.
> 
> And now, the game is afoot!

'Auntie Molly' wasn't exactly having the best day.

Frankly, the brunette had just finished an excruciatingly long shift at work, walked back home through an unexpected fit of rain, accidentally emptied her take out onto her feet when she opened the flimsy styrofoam container, and she had been called over to 221B Baker Street in a matter of 'utmost importance', according to Sherlock, immediately after changing clothes.

She was done. This was it. She was entirely prepared to go inside, slap the consulting detective for adding another annoyance to her day of constant annoyances, and head back home.

This was exactly what Molly, who was finally,  _finally_  at her wit's end was about to do.

But then one John Watson, his blue eyes swarming with relief as he saw her, opened the door, a huffy baby Rosamund in hand and a phone in the other. From behind him, Sherlock could be observed groaning in exasperation at the police force, who had, once again, encroached on their private quarters.

"Thank god you're here, Molly," the doctor breathed, readjusting his grip on his daughter. "Lestrade just begged us to take on two new murder cases -  _two murder cases_ \- and I just got a call from the bank about some payment transfer troubles from our last job and Sherlock and I haven't slept in three days and Rosie is starting to get  _bored_  and I cannot hope to occupy her right now while the world is slowly collapsing." He stopped talking for a moment as if trying to remember how to breathe again. "I know it's a lot to ask, but could you please take her downstairs and watch her? Mrs. Hudson is busy cleaning and can't really keep an eye on a toddler right now but she said she wouldn't mind if Rosie was left there and - "

"John, give me my niece," she interrupted, because no matter how agonizing her afternoon was Molly was nothing if not kindhearted and empathetic. Of course, 'niece' was just a title and it held no real weight, but ever since the one and a half year old child had been able to speak simple words, 'Aun Mol' had been the dubbing Molly received.

This was appropriate, considering how often she ended up babysitting.

Honestly, Sherlock and John were wonderful crime fighters and brilliant men, but scheduling? That, they were rubbish at.

They made due to the best of their abilities, really - Rosie wasn't ever neglected or anything. They tried to give her structured attention and meals and nap times. In fact, John and Rosie had moved back into 221B. This was for a variety of reasons. Convenience of proximity to Sherlock and to work were major factors, Mary's absence another. The army doctor was much better - honestly, he was astoundingly fine, given his easy ability to get attached to everyone - but still, seeing the flat that him and his wife made a life together in caused his eyes to droop, his pace to slow. It dragged him down, every single inch of him, ever so slightly, and Mary would never want him to suffer.

Back into 221B they went. It was a simple choice to make, in the end.

As was taking her unofficial niece from her very desperate, very tired friend.

"You're a godsend, Molly." Hastily, Rosamund was put in her arms with a kiss on the tiny head and a quick squeeze.

"John! I require your immediate assistance!" comes a haughty, unmistakable voice from the other room, and with a sigh, John turns away from the brunette currently holding his child.

"Coming, Sherlock!"

"Well? Go on."

"Are you sure this is alright? I know it's very last minute and all but - "

"John Watson, go to our needy friend. I think he's about to blow a fuse and being left next to Anderson for so long is going to have its repercussions," she warns, closing her hands tighter around the toddler. "I'm  _fine_ , it's nothing I haven't done before. Now get going."

"We appreciate it!" It's the last thing she hears before he is summoned back into the fray, blonde hair falling over his forehead.

Molly briefly stares at the little girl resting against her shoulder.

"Well, I guess it's just you and me for a while, huh Rosie?" she says, making a concerted effort to smile. Surely this wouldn't take so long.

After one hour of watching Rosamund assemble and re-assemble a puzzle, she was starting to yawn again.

After two hours, she looked out Mrs. Hudson's flat's window, wondering whether or not the boys upstairs were aware that it was growing darker.

After three hours, she was seriously considering ordering food out - for the second time today - when the child she was babysitting began to cry.

It was a rather dramatic affair, utterly unexpected, and great tears were pouring out of the toddler's face like a sprinkler. The whole scene was far too much for Molly, too much for the day, and she resisted the urge to start screaming alongside her niece.

"Honey, please calm down," the sweet brunette pleaded, attempting to right the situation through her exhaustion. Sadly, Rosie only bawled louder, feeding off the attention, it seemed, and Mrs. Hudson strutted over to the pair with a sympathetic look. "Are you hungry? Your diaper isn't full."

"What do you want, sweetheart?" the older woman questioned, gazing at the child with concern. To Molly's great surprise, the toddler gave out another giant sniffle before tossing them a baleful pout.

"Want da," she whined, pounding her tiny fists toward her caretakers. "Da!"

"Alright, alright, we'll get you to your Dad," Molly murmured, picking up the child. Wordlessly, Mrs. Hudson dabbed at her face with a tissue, wiping away the snot. "It's going to be okay, Rosie."

"They should be going by now, I think," Mrs. Hudson muttered, alluding to the police. "They've already stayed for so long . . ." With a nod, the young woman trudged up the stairs, Rosamund in hand.

Only Lestrade remained in 221B Baker Street, and he appeared to be gathering his things. Ignoring the blubberings of the child in her arms, Molly readjusted her grip and held out Rosie.

"Someone wants her father," she explained, almost relieved that she had an avenue of escape. She was tired, not feeling very well, and was not in the mood to handle more wails, no matter how much she adored Watson's child.

"Oh, of course, I'll just - " He reached out to take hold of his daughter when the girl turned her head away.

"No." Rosie's words were forceful and fierce, not something you would expect from someone who wasn't even two.

"Rosie, dear, you said you wanted your da, didn't you?" the brunette repeated, brow knit in confusion.

"Want da," the child nodded, fisting the poor woman's coat lapels tighter.

"Well, daddy's here, Ro."

"Want  _da_ ," she chided, repeating the basic request with fervor.

"Oh, for the love of . . . " Molly groaned, nearly sinking against the table.

"Molly, it doesn't matter if she's choosing to mess with you or not," Sherlock voiced, breaking away from his dismissals of Lestrade in order to join the conversation. "You've been with her for hours. We'll handle our daughter while you're gone."

Suddenly, it clicked.

 _Our daughter_.

"Sherlock, can you come over here for a second?" she requested.

"Want da," repeated Rosie unhelpfully. Frowning, the consulting detective came a few steps closer, and Molly unceremoniously dropped the young girl into his arms without a hitch. The child instantly grew quiet, lightly pounding on Sherlock's chest as though it were an interesting new toy.

"That makes much more sense, actually," she breathed, letting out a sigh of relief. The great Sherlock Holmes' ears turned pink.

"She wanted  _me?_ "

"Don't act so surprised, Holmes," Lestrade chuckled, letting a small smile encompass his lips as he let himself out. "Aren't you her dad, too?"

"Da da da da da," crooned the toddler, and the question answered itself.

"She thinks I'm her dad?" the detective asked in wonderment, staring at his best friend's child. John, after a brief minute, grinned softly.

"Well, of course. Who's been helping me take care of her, Holmes?"

It was at this time that Molly made her escape, shaking her head and slipping out the door unnoticed.

Her bed was waiting, and frankly, she could ponder over the logistics of the Watson-Holmes household later.

Sleep: now that was a priority.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was a man of logic and deduction. He was calculated, composed, articulate. The nonsensical and emotional - chemical defects, really, often found in the loosing side - were cast away, stripped at a young age by cold sciences and observational habits.

He was an analytical. He kept his mind sharp, his wits and instincts even more so, and this cool detachment and brilliant mind made him such a good detective.

Except, of course, for at home. Then the inexplicable grasp of feelings ensnared him once more.

It's simply impossible to be hard and distant when you live with the Watsons, he has deduced, because they are the most compassionate and stunningly brave people you will ever hope to meet. As his best friend, John had clearly proven his use over and over and over again - he was  _John Watson_ , for god's sake. He had been molded into a good man the way Sherlock had been molded into an observer: since before he was born. The doctor was simply destined to be great.

A ridiculous, fanciful notion, naturally. No scientific grounding whatsoever. But then again, even Sherlock can appreciate a bit of misguided faith in the improvable now and then.

The detective has always felt  _warm_  when John was near. It was a subtle change, though the ex military man fell into his routine almost seamlessly, and after a while the ebony haired deductor had simply forgotten what it was like to wake up in 221B Baker Street alone, to not hear familiar footsteps pounding lightly on the floor. What it was like to not have tea in the mornings - only one sugar, the way he preferred it, partnered with a smile beneath a fringe of blonde. What is was like to avoid eating and sleeping for days due to a case; John always forced him to take small breaks much like a worried mother hen. It would have almost been amusing had it not been so inconvenient.

Sleep - a waste of time, honestly.

A biological urge that should have been repressed had  _he_ not been so infuriatingly wonderful.

And now, he had not only John Watson to come home to, but one Rosamund as well. A little girl he had been assisting in the care of since her mother died - John's  _wife_  died - and the pair had moved into 221B.

An adjustment, to be certain. However, he's found he's liked having a small child around for the last few years, as odd and inexplicable as it may be.

Somedays, Sherlock wonders if this is the closest he will ever get to raising children of his own. He'd never really given the notion much thought - who would endure marriage to him long enough to produce offspring, after all - but Rosie had long ago started calling the strange man she lived with 'Dad' once the proper syllables were established, and really, Sherlock never bothered to correct her. If it helped, John was referred to as Daddy. Far more use of sentiment, he's certain.

It's an odd feeling, affection. He feels it for Watson, certainly, and who wouldn't? But there are many different types of love, and even though he's fairly sure (how unsavory, not being 100% certain of something - how annoyed other people must be all the time) the type he's experienced for his best friend is more than simply friendship anymore, there is a very, very slim margin for change or reveal.

For starters, the Holmes family is just not made for love. His parents, being normal enough, managed to be happy together, but Sherlock is utterly convinced that this was a fluke. Him and Mycroft, despite their spheres of influence, would never taste that sort of belonging. They were too distant, too estranged, too eccentric and needy - in other words, too  _Holmes_  to truly be accepted. Even typical friendships were far and few between.

Secondly, John wasn't ready for anything. Not now, possibly not ever, and saying that he had developed an unsaid  _something_  for the incredible blonde would skew everything. Hell, after him and Rosie first moved in, they took to sleeping together in the same bed out of necessity. John wasn't used to being on his own, sleeping in a bed alone, and establishing who would be getting up to comfort the infant was an ordeal of wills at 3am even without a staircase between them. Sherlock, though he was used to being secluded, had simply grown weary of being isolated, especially after cutting off contact with the outside would for the last several years, and his odd investigative sleep schedule made taking care of a weeping Rosie far more convenient. Having a crib and a single bed on the main floor, all in one room, simply made sense. And if their legs were tangled together and John's arm was flung over his chest in the middle of the night, or they found themselves locked in an embrace come morning due to a particularly bad nightmare (falling tailcoats, blood on the ground, bombs strapped to chests, and gut wrenching gunshots made for some riveting, horrifying dreams - the kind that have already come true), then that wasn't bad at all.

John had started to feel safe here. He was happy again, the way things were. He was comfortable with his life, and with Rosie's life at 221B. Sherlock would never dream of compromising that sense of home.

And somewhere along the way, Rosie and John had stopped being Rosie and John, his close friends. They were his daughter and his partner, in every sense of the word, and damn it all if Sherlock Holmes would let  _his family_  ever get hurt again. They are his. The mere idea is unacceptable.

This is why he is so confused when the little girl that calls him Dad is looking so out of sorts this afternoon.

You see, it's her third day of kindergarten, and since she had been living with one  _Sherlock Holmes_ , Rosie had picked up some things at her ripe age of five. Like, for instance, all the usual preliminaries - the alphabet, her name, basic numbers, colors, etc. But Sherlock had also, when John was not around, started teaching her about other things, such as the art of deduction and the importance of rudimentary mathematics and the distinct smells of chemicals in the lab.

She's to be a prodigy, his daughter. Rosie simply must learn at a young age to expand her mind before she becomes ordinary, or worse - bored.

Not that there's anything wrong with normal. John is perfectly normal, perhaps slightly more intelligent, and he's delightful.

But he's John Watson, and therefore the exception. Rosie is going to have not only her father's amiable qualities and kindness, but the Holmes brilliant streak, if the detective has anything to do with it. It's the least he can do, giving her the tools she needs to succeed.

The bottom line is, Rosamund loves learning. She's been looking forward to school, unlike the many bedwetters of her age. She had been ecstatic to go to the academy this morning.

So why was she so dissapointed now?

"Rosamund," he starts, not really knowing what to say. Her behavior is illogical, without prior pattern, and social interaction has never been his strong suit. Too unpredictable. "What's wrong?"

Blunt. To the point. Not too offensive.

Brilliant, then.

"I hate school," she muttered, crossing her five year old arms.

"What?"

"I  _hate_ school," she repeated, her blonde curls bouncing around her face as if they, too, were indignant. "It's  _wrong_ , Dad." Blinking, Sherlock decided to sit down across from her. Rosie remained seething in her father's armchair. As of now, the tattered fabric appeared to swallow up her small frame, but he suspected that over time the young Watson would come to fill it properly.

"Why did you say you hate school? I know for a fact that you've been excited about the prospect," he began, folding his slender hands over his knees and straightening his back. To any outsider, it would look like Sherlock Holmes was prepping himself for a case.

"It's just so . . ."

"Crowded? Loud? Filled with children who don't like you? I didn't exactly enjoy rigorous boarding schools for the social aspect, either."

"No, my classmates are okay," the child sighed, slumping forwards. Her skirt and jumper crinkled at the movement, her chin falling into her palms.

She clearly referred to the others as 'her classmates'. There was a sense of belonging there already, an establishment of a unit. The inflection was fond, as was the experience itself, then. As she had already explained, Rosie didn't have a problem with her new peers - on the contrary, she liked them. There was more exasperation in her tone and stance than sadness or pain, anyhow. The struggle must be internalized or stem from another spring.

"If it's the teacher - "

"No, she was nice. She looks like Mrs. Hudson," Rosie said, blowing her hair out of her face.

"What, then?" Children, surprisingly, were often harder to get a read on than adults. Adults have patterns, common sense, daily routines and obligations that need to be met. Their instincts have distilled down into a few fundamentals based on circumstance. Children, however, didn't have such pressures. Their emotions changed on a dime, as the expression went, and their motives were often unclear at first. Sloppiness was a common given, inattentiveness even more so. However, they were not immune to his deductions entirely. Even the brightest and most advanced of kids were often swayed by bribes of sugar or signs of distress, such as a damning punishment. Rosie, as he's noticed, hasn't been very concerned with the accumulation or avoidance of either.

An anomaly, his daughter, but had he really expected the spawn of John to be anything less?

"It's just so . . .  _boring_ ," the young girl groaned, sagging backwards into the giant chair.

The detective felt . . .

Surprised.

That didn't happen often.

"Boring? Your schooling?"

"Yes!" In a fit of dramaticism, Rosie crossed her arms once more and let out an enormous huff. "Boring, boring, boring."

"What about it?"

"We're learning counting, Dad, and the alphabet. The  _alphabet!_ " She sprang up from the folds of the couch, landing squarely on her small feet. "Dad, I don't want to think about counting and the alphabet. I can already recite it all backwards and I can spell my name. Can't I just . . . " At this point, Sherlock Holmes picked up the blonde girl and placed her on his lap.

"You're a very special girl, you know that?" She nodded slowly, her nose scrunching up. "I've taught you a lot of things that the other children . . . their parents aren't like me."

"Nobody is like you, Dad." The dark haired man smiled wryly at this irony, running a hand through his locks.

"No one, indeed. As it is, because of who we are, you've learned a lot more than you should have. Your vocabulary, for example, is a lot more extensive. No other children your age complete five hundred piece puzzles or play memory games like we do." He paused for a moment as if reminded of something. "By the way, what can you tell me about your class?" She cleared her throat, eyes lighting up.

"There are twenty other students in my class. Eleven are girls. The teacher is nice, about fifty I think, with light blonde hair and blue eyes. She's happy, and she has a ring on her finger. That means she's probably married." Rosie stared back at Sherlock sheepishly. "Am I doing okay?"

"Elementary."

"Well . . . I talked to a girl named Reyna today. She's a year older than me and wore red shoes, but the laces were all funny. She probably wears them a lot because she tugs the laces all the time, which was what made them look so strange. I think she likes running." She looked down at her own feet. "I like Reyna. She was nice."

"It sounds like school can be rather interesting after all, if you look for something to occupy yourself with," Sherlock smiled, ruffling her fair curls. Her eyes widened.

"Yeah . . ."

"Do you think you can tough it out? Just until you get home each afternoon? I'd rather not explain to your father that I'm pulling you out of the academy due to boredom."

"I'll try," she said determinedly, already grinning again. "Can you teach me after I get home, though? Until it gets interesting."

"Of course, Rosamund." It's a promise the boisterous and far too clever five year old will hold him to, he knows, but it's one he's willing to keep.

Sentiment. A peculiar instinct, he knows, but some things are not meant to be evenly cut and dry. Some things are simply inexplicable, like how people appreciate John's damned blog, why Molly puts up with their antics repeatedly, and if the police force is purposefully dumbing themselves down in order to keep his slot as consulting detective open - it's mind blowing, how oblivious Lestrade's team can be, most days.

And love. That is something often associated with the inexplicable as well.

Just then, John Watson swings open the door with a beam, speaking of love. He instantly picks up a frazzled Rosie, throwing her over his shoulders, and she shrieks with laughter as he interacts with her. Curious, this sort of parenting. It's not the practical variety Sherlock has accustomed himself to over the years, but it has its charms.

"Did someone have a good day?" the doctor asked, that brilliant and somewhat slanted smile still on his face, as it always is when he returns home.

"School was boring, but I made a friend. Her name's Reyna," she managed through a series of giggles, clinging to her father's neck.

"Bored already?" He shot a lidded glance in Sherlock's direction.

"What?"

"Rosie, bored? Reminds me of another person I know."

"Well, I seriously doubt she'll be able to find a gun and shoot at the wall, so I'm presuming we'll be safe," he sighed, but a grin was already quirking at his lips.

"And I suppose your day was alright, too?"

"No new cases, unfortunately, but perhaps that means Grant has finally gotten his team together." John's eyebrow raised, amused.

"I think you're starting to do it on purpose."

"Do what?"

"Misinterpret his name. He's one of our few friends and has been for several years. It's almost funny."

"Almost." And yet his advanced mind can't help but latch onto the 'our' in that statement. 'Our friends' seems almost resolute, almost like a couple.

Well. The strange mistakes our brains invent.

"I'm hungry," Rosie proclaims loudly, finally wiggling free of her father's grip and running towards the kitchen. "Daddy, can you make mac and cheese?"

"Shouldn't your Dad be making you food? Daddy's been working all day and would like to lie down." From behind the island, already pulling out a pan, the young girl scoffed.

A full, real scoff. Sherlock had never felt so proud.

"Dad would burn up the kitchen." John chuckled at that, giving Sherlock a squeeze on the shoulder as he went to accompany his daughter.

"Fair enough, Rosie."

An augmented memory, for the genius, though the why is a matter of debate. It keeps a special room in his mind palace, filling every nook and cranny of the devoted space, though nothing particularly special happened.

After many hours of dedicated contemplation, Sherlock Holmes did the unthinkable with this memory - he replayed it, over and over, before carefully shutting its door. Some things, despite his vast grasps of the explained and the deduced, could remain mysteries.

And honestly, could there be a better one to hold onto?

* * *

Rosamund Watson, at her ripe age of eight, had never given much thought to her living situation. She simply was where she was, in 221B Baker Street. The young girl considered herself fairly fortunate, fairly clever, and fairly friendly, given her circumstances.

Her family was lovely, in her opinion, though she supposed it changed for everyone. Perspective and all. But she, as Rosie, was very lucky indeed.

She had a grandma named Mrs. Hudson who lived right downstairs and bakes cookies with her - from scratch, she might let you know - every weekend, and Rosie's gotten quite good at assisting with shortbread. It's her favorite thing to make, she thinks, because it takes the longest to cook and that means she can bask in the warmth of her grandmother's kitchen, swinging her legs and listening to stories. Some are fairy tales, some are old memories, and some are the details of mysteries long since solved. It's the mysteries she loves the best, she believes, because Mrs. Hudson will talk about a tall man in a silly cap and his wonderful best friend, and Rosie will laugh as she tries to imagine her father doing all of those crazy things. She's not dumb - the smartest in her class, actually, as her teacher says - and she knew from the very start that those made up cases were the adventures of the men living right upstairs. But still, they sound so much  _better_  coming from her grandma.

And then there's her Aunt Molly, and Aunt Molly is the absolute best. She's always kind, always sweet, and always taking care of her. Rosie and Molly watch telly together when her guardians are off on 'work business', journey to the supermarket to buy groceries when the fridge is running low, and take walks to the nearest playground and the park whenever Rosie wants to. Sometimes, when she's with her aunt, Rosamund wonders if this is what having a mother is like. She's never really been sad about not having her mother ( _Mary,_  John says,  _her name was Mary, and she was wonderful with you_ ) because she never got to miss it, but perhaps this was all because Molly made sure that she wouldn't have to go without anything. Molly is safe, and loving, and  _warm_  every second she's with Rosie and the little girl loves having her around.

Uncle Lestrade is sometimes around the flat, too, and he always goes up to her and gets on his knees and asks her how she's doing when he comes. He works with her fathers, she's been told, and he's big and strong and protective. Like a grizzly bear, she imagines, with a big hairy bear heart. Sherlock let loose one of his rare laughs when she revealed that thought, and John did the same. Odd, but she liked her uncle. He seemed to be the type of person with a lot of responsibilities, but also the type of person who didn't mind shouldering them if it meant that his loved ones had a little less to bare. A good man.

Uncle Mycroft isn't around too often, but Rosie loves it when he is. He's no good with people - he's  _terrible_ with other children, especially - but he always addresses her like she matters, like she's an adult. He leaves her a present on Christmas every year, and if they're lucky he'll deliver it himself. Sherlock always frowns when he opens the door, and the way his face scrunches up at the sight of Uncle Mycroft makes Rosamund giggle uncontrollably, but he always wishes them happy holidays and leaves behind some cookies, which Rosie thought was awfully nice. He's weird, her other uncle, and not so straightforward and pleasant like Lestrade, but she assumes it's because he's just a little lonely.

Rosie has a phenomenal father named John Watson, and he's the perfect dad. He's patient and gentle and  _loving_ , always so loving, and shines like the sun. His job is to help people at the hospital, but he also investigates with Sherlock, which makes him extra cool. He's always happy to see her, even when it's so clear by the way his tie is crooked and his sweater is drooping that he's tired and annoyed and just wants to eat something before he collapses. He's John Watson, and he's one of her favorite people in the whole wide world.

The other is her second father, Sherlock Holmes. He's mysterious and brooding - she rather likes that word, and she's fairly convinced she's the only girl in her class to know what it means - towards clients and officers alike, but never to her. To her, he's smiling and clever and the most incredible person she knows. She wants to be just like Sherlock when she's older, and she's getting there, she knows. She can recite several lines from the periodic table, and her skills of deduction are improving every day, he says, and whenever she says something particularly smart he beams at her as though she's done something amazing. He is not John Watson - he is perceptive but clueless in the way of feelings, and he cannot always say the right thing like Daddy. But Dad is something else, someone very special, and she loves him for it.

Sure, there is Aunt Harry and Aunt Clara and Grandma and Grandpa Watson and the rest of the Holmes family tree, but they were not so important, somehow. Rosie loved them, yes, but they were rarely around and she found that she didn't miss them nearly as much after they had left.

This was her family, her wonderful, mix-matched family. She never suspected that other children could have families unlike her own - unlike odd experiments and violins at midnight hours, unlike police investigations and yellow smiley faces on the walls and no mother. But then a student in her class was talking about her parents' anniversaries, all smiles and giggles, and Rosie had listened intently as all the other girls soon joined in. There was conversation revolving around how icky their mothers and fathers were - always  _smooching_ , heavens forbid - and bragging about how happy and well balanced and in touch their relatives were. Slowly, Rosamund began to realize that all the other girls had a family connected by blood, aunts and uncles that were actually related to eachother, and their parents were married.

The thought had never crossed her mind, but were her fathers married? Did they even love eachother, like all the other children discussed?

"What are your parents like, Rosie?" This question came from Reyna, her very bestest friend for three years, and the dark haired child with almond eyes was smiling, awaiting a story with curiosity. Reyna was pretty, and clever, and was always on Rosamund's side, no matter what occasional schoolyard squabbles broke out, and Rosie sincerely adored the older girl for all of it. However, the inquiry still caught her off guard.

"Um . . . I have two dads. One is named John, and he was married to my mum, but she died. He's a doctor and used to be in the army." She took a small breathe before continuing. "Sherlock is my other father, and he's the smartest person I know. Daddy says he's a genius, licensed and everything, and he works with one of my uncles at the police station. He's a consulting detective." She hadn't known what she had been expecting, but positive interest hadn't been it.

"Cool!" squeaked one of the students. "A real live detective?"

"Consulting detective, actually. An easy mistake, really, but he can be very particular about it." The thought of Sherlock Holmes, deerstalker and all, made the blonde smile.

"I have two moms. Kind of the same thing, right?" asked another girl, shyly flitting her fingers through her braids. "I thought I was the only one."

"Hey, I do, too!"

"Two dads, actually."

"Well, I've only got one mom. She said it was 'vitro', whatever that means."

"I think you started something, Rosie," Reyna chuckled softly, leaning closer to the younger girl. "For what it's worth, I think your family is great."

They were, weren't they? Not exactly the average lot, not by a long shot, but if her classmates thought that they were special, too, then there was absolutely nothing wrong with different.

Of course, this wouldn't stop her from interrogating her fathers when she got home.

This, actually, turned out to be exactly what she would do.

"Daddy, are you and Dad married?" she questioned as she assembled a puzzle with John Watson over the kitchen table. He proceeded to choke on his tea. "Daddy, are you alright? Should I get help?"

"No, no, pumpkin, just . . ." His face was red, though this could have been from a rise in self awareness or a decrease in temperature rather than the intense gagging of before. She settled on embarrassment or a new state of self consciousness, given the lack of a chill. Never before had Rosamund felt so proud that her detective had begun teaching her the fine art of deduction. "Why do you ask, Rosie?" he eventually sputtered out, viciously clearing his throat and sitting up straighter.

Good. He was paying attention, then.

"All the other children's parents in my class are married, and I was wondering if you and Dad were husbands. I didn't see any rings, but I assumed you didn't like to wear them because of my mum." Rosamund leaned forwards, her curls slipping over her shoulders. "Well? Aren't you?"

"Rosie, I . . . " The usually sunshine bright, always-wonderful-at-comforting-phrases John Watson was at a loss for words. "I . . . no, Rosie, me and Sherlock aren't married, sweetheart. We're your parents, yes, and don't ever doubt that we love you for a second, but . . ."

"You're not in love with eachother," she completed, a new understanding dawning over her. How had she not noticed it before, really? Sure, they had moved her upstairs once she was big enough and they kept the same bed, but they never cuddled outside of their room like other couples. They didn't go on dates, and while she had assumed that they were simply too busy, they never tried to make the time for it either. And there was no kissing, even if John always made breakfast and Sherlock always helped him with his coat.

"We're . . . we're like the closest of friends, but better," John tried, attempting to explain their dynamic. "I don't . . . there's no real way to put it into sentences, Rosie. He's just the person I trust more than anybody else, the person I always want at my side. I haven't thought about having feelings for anyone that way since your mother left us. I've been too focused on work and you and making sure Sherlock doesn't run himself into the ground."

"I see," the small blonde said simply, looking back at her puzzle - the english countryside, today - and snapping another piece into place. She wasn't quite sure if she did or not, but she wanted him to feel better. Daddy always had a way of making other people feel better, so if she could do it, do this one small thing for him, then maybe it was as if she was returning the favor. For a long stretch of time he grew quiet, silently assembling the jigsaw with her, before he turned up his chin again.

"And Rosie?"

"Yes, Daddy?" He swallowed, though not uncomfortably. More in an authoritative stance.

"I love your Dad. I feel strongly for him. Just because I'm not one hundred percent in love with him, not that way yet, doesn't mean I don't care about him like I care about you. Like he's my family and my home." She blinked, smiled, and hid her thoughts behind border pieces and painted green grass.

"Okay." One father down, then. Time to pester the other.

"I was wondering . . . " Sherlock Holmes set down his newspaper as Rosamund stood next to his chair, gazing at him with intent.

"Yes, Rosie?"

"Are you in love with Daddy?" Unlike with John, her ebony-haired relative didn't sputter uncontrollably and lose control of his pigmentation. Instead, the color drained from his face, a feat barely noticeable given his already fair complexion, but one accomplished all the same.

"What do you mean by that, Rosamund?"

"You know, do you love him like Reyna's dad loves her mom. Like Daddy's yours." Sherlock, for a brief, remarkable moment, appeared to be stumped. "Well?"

"What do you think, before I say anything?" He said this in a diplomatic way, knitting and unknitting his fingers in a fashion that almost resembled fidgeting.

"That  _somebody_  has to love Daddy. It might be you. He's far too great, don't you agree?" His smile, for once, was uneven and shaky, his gaze wobbling.

"Quite something, indeed." Rosie clambered into his lap, frowning at the lack of his usual confidence. Still, she remained calm and quiet, waiting for her father to give her an answer. "You're right about it, you know. I think I've made you a little too clever."

"There's no such thing as too clever, you always say."

"Too nosy, though, does exist."

"Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back," Rosamund quipped, giving him a reassuring beam.

"Does it change anything, knowing that I love your dad? Rosie, I know you consider me a . . . parental figure, despite all odds, and I don't want to - "

"It's nice, that you love him." She slipped off of his chair with a decided lack of grace, nearly face planting onto the floor. "I think he might love you, too."

The great Sherlock Holmes froze at this, which Rosamund would have seen had she been giving him a lick of attention. Instead, she turned her sights towards the stairs, running up to her room where she could do her homework and read her newest book,  _A Short History on the Theorems of Evolution_. A little advanced, sure, but both of her fathers always seemed so proud when she got excited about these novels, when she flipped through them the way she loved to. 'Our little genius', they'd say. So clever.

Her fathers.

Plural.

For once, her mind lingered not on the spirals containing her coursework or her thick, fascinating pages, but on the dilemma that phrase created.

_Fathers._

What an interesting predicament.

Then the idea struck.

It's odd, trying to get your fathers, the men who raised you side by side, to fall in love, but their family was never anything less than odd, anyhow. And this really would tie up so many loose ends nicely. John and Sherlock already shared the same room and had a common job and routine, and her dad already admitted that he loved her father, so half the work was done. And the tall, brooding - yes, it really was such a wonderful word,  _brooding_  - detective was so interesting and charming on his own, so surely it wouldn't be so hard.

Rosamund adored her family dearly, but one thing was for certain; she was going to change things, and she was going to change them whether her fathers wanted it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waiting for the next season is going to be agonizing, isn't it?
> 
> Serves me right for joining the fandom, I suppose.
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for reading! This was meant to be a oneshot but it's looking to be a three parter, with each chapter having a segment from Molly, Sherlock, and Rosie. I hope I got the characterization right - it's hard to write like an eight year old, surprisingly, even one as bright and advanced as I tried to make Rosamund out to be. The mindset is completely different.
> 
> And trying to sound intelligent took cognitive thought, sadly. I had to really think about what Sherlock Holmes might actually wonder about, and so I apologize if the wording isn't quite correct. I tried to keep things in the spirit.
> 
> If you're still with me this far, again, the story will have about three components, it will be uploaded to once a week starting today, and you should really give me feedback because I thrive off of validation. It's one of the things I need to live. 
> 
> Thanks for surviving the end note with me. See you (hopefully) in the next part!


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is, as promised, the next installment of Elementary, My Dear Rosie. I've already had this up for a while on my fanfiction.net account, but this gave me the chance to comb through and edit out any small errors, which was helpful.  
> For those sticking around for part two, I hope you enjoy it!

Molly wonders, sometimes, why exactly she could never seem to shake her stubborn crush on Sherlock Holmes.

The notion was  _infuriating_.

She loves him, of course, and everybody knows it. But in recent years, as she's spent more time with him, she realized she needed to love him as a friend. He would never make her happy, never be the doting partner she always fantasized about, or at least, not to her. His heart wasn't ever really into anything, except for his work, his experiments, and his family. Sherlock Holmes simply didn't have space left in his emotional repertoire for romanticisms and pointless sentimental affairs, but there was always a window into the realm of friendship, and Molly had grabbed for it with swift, strong, decisive hands.

This was a strategic move, the end of an era. She might never get married and have children like she's dreamt about as a little girl. Molly Hooper, with her sweet smiles and gentle attitude, was made for motherhood, for nurturing. She quite liked the idea of taking care of people, of being taken care of, and perhaps this was why she had fancied Sherlock Holmes for the longest time. If anyone was in dire need of affection, of being watched over, it was Sherlock, with all of his midnight locks and bright eyes. He was intriguing, a rare and beautiful creature, but a broken one nonetheless.

For ages, she adored him, resigned to her fate on one side of the spectrum and still holding out hope for a remarkable, inconceivable realization on his end, where he woke up and remembered that he could let himself be taken care of for once, that he could let  _Molly_  be that person to care for him. She  _lived_  to help people. She reveled in the warm glow of usefulness, though she didn't have many friends.

Now, she's been free of her lingering feelings for one crime fighting detective for years, since way before Rosie's third birthday. It was when Sherlock had calmly sat her down, apologized profusely for forcing her to admit her sentiments over the phone, and explained that he had never meant to be cruel. He thought it was the only way to save her from Euros' twisted games, and for this, Molly was grateful. She understood.

But she also understood that she was torturing herself by staying fixated on the most incredible man she's ever known. Sherlock Holmes was wonderful, but he was simply not right for her. He would never be who she needed him to be, never fall into her arms like a missing puzzle piece, never comfort her on her worst days.

The detective, as he so promptly put it, wasn't made for love.

Nevertheless, the brunette thinks he might have stumbled into it, though.

As much as she couldn't see it before, perhaps the reason his heart could never be occupied by such notions of romance was because he had already found his version. It came with compositions at sunrise and picking up takeout, stealing jumpers for experimentation and purposefully doing unspeakably disgusting things with pieces from the morgue in the kitchen sink, just to get a reaction.

John Watson, she believes, is  _exactly_  what Sherlock had needed, even if they might never end up together like  _that_. And Sherlock, though he fights so hard against the ideals of sentiment, certainly acts the closest to affectionate he can get when it comes to Watson and his daughter, who was practically the detective's daughter, too, at this point. To any outsider, the dynamic was obvious, if not complex.

It's strange, but sweet, this other side to the three of them. They were made to be a group.

This is why Molly found it so amusing that Rosie started playing rugby.

"It's a contact sport," the blonde explained to her unofficial aunt one day as they went shopping for bras, something Moll would definitely not trust the boys to handle. She loved her friends fiercely, but Sherlock would almost instantly blurt out some fact about the materials or the fit that would make the whole affair unbearable and John would simply feel awkward the entire time, and thus she had wordlessly volunteered to buy the garments herself. "And I think that the exercise would be beneficial, and I could get an additional scholarship to university if I'm any good. The female teams have less people to pull from, after all, and it's a way to meet new girls my age, anyhow. Perhaps the constant running will give me practice if I ever decide to take up the family business."

"And what business is that, Rosie?" The eleven year old had smiled fondly at her aunt as if running the idea over and over again in her head, trying to figure out which fantasy seemed best.

"Why, consulting detective, of course. I'd imagine I'd be a great one, too, with enough practice, and with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as my private mentors . . . well, Scotland Yard always needs a helping hand, right?" Molly grinned right back because  _isn't that fitting_  and naturally, she shouldn't expect anything less than exceptional from Rosamund at this point, even in her ambitious career choices. She was raised in a household that torches eyeballs with a bunsen burner and has a copy of the periodic table that's she's had completely memorized since age nine. Hell, Molly once walked in on Rosie sitting in the upstairs room, which was John's old quarters and now her bedroom, with a copy of the Iliad.  _In Greek_. The eleven year old  _taught herself_  both Greek and Latin, alone, because she figured it would be 'interesting'.

Rugby was certainly not the same as learning a new language, but as far as the unexpected, it was far up the list.

It starts to make sense, though, once she thinks about it.

"You guys can watch me play together!" Rosamund tells them when she makes the team - she's always had a way of picking things up effortlessly, and rugby tryouts turned out to be no different. John, who was quite the rugby player back in high school and uni, beams at his daughter like she's just invented the cure for cancer, and Sherlock nods and says something along the lines of 'sports are wonderful for blood flow', which is technically approval. Molly, of course, simply hugged the blonde preteen and muttered, "I knew you could do it," into her ear.

What they hadn't realized when they agreed to see Rosie compete was that they were signing up for every game, without failure or exception.

Every. Bloody. Match.

Molly didn't mind rugby, but she didn't know a lick about it. She tried - really, she did - and though John and Rosamund and even  _Sherlock_ , as un-sportsminded as he was, explained its rules over and over again, the information never clicked.

She's admitting it. She doesn't get rugby. She's failed at being British.

Maybe it's not entirely true, but after five games - two of which she froze to death on the benches during - Molly feels as though she should have a vague idea of what is happening now.

She has absolutely no clue. Still.

"I bet you'd understand rugby," she sighs as she prepares another body in the morgue, this one belonging to a slightly heavyset older gentleman. He said nothing in response. "You're probably an expert, huh? Could you, I don't know, give me some pointers? I have a game to catch in another two hours after work and I could use the help."

Predictably, the corpse kept its mouth shut. Molly snickered, her soft laughs echoing across the virtually noiseless, empty room.

"I don't blame you for withholding the information. The strong and silent type, I see. An admirable quality in a man." She finished her session with the dead man by scribbling a few notes down onto a clipboard and initialing the sheet. "Well, another lovely chat, sir, but I have other things to do now. Maybe you'll find another employee to chat up rugby with." The body was carted away, and then the reminder of Rosie's match, specifically how freezing it would be once more, slipped back into Molly's mind. She shuddered.

"At least the corpse is going to be  _inside_  later this afternoon," she groaned, already anticipating the nip of the frigid air.

Of course, not to mention that the dead body still possessed more knowledge on rugby than her. The woes she must face.

The next few hours flew by, and before she knew it, she was heading to the cold stands, shivering madly. Silently, she contemplated the poor life decisions she had made up until this point - namely not bringing a bloody coat - before looking around for the Baker Street boys (and really, 'The Baker Street Boys' would be an excellent band name, looking back). She spotted them, unsurprisingly, across the field, having just arrived only minutes before the game would start.

Briefly, Molly wondered why Rosie had wanted to join a sport with such inconvenient hours. Sure,  _she_  could get off work in time, but Sherlock and John had cases that stretched long into the night, and frankly all of Rosamund's big games took place smack in the middle of the week, which was a virtual rush hour in 221B. They would almost always have to rush in, last minute, what with traffic and cases and the trek to the field.

Then Molly realized how cramped the available seating was behind her, how the men would have to be practically breathing down eachother's necks on this cold evening in order to sit together, and then a lot of things made perfect sense.

Slightly devious, perhaps, but one couldn't deny that her scheme was genius.

Sherlock seemed to notice the same lack of personal space when they reached the bleachers, frowning rather dramatically.

"The only other spot next to Molly would be a tight fit for both of us, John. Maybe I should just stand over here." Playing into his daughter's hands, Watson shook his head.

"No, it'll be fine. It's not like we're strangers or anything, and besides, it's bloody freezing out here." John climbed onto the edge and patted the seat next to him. "Well?" Awkwardly, Sherlock lumbered onto the strip. "See? Close and all, but we fit."

"Close indeed," the detective managed dryly, and if Molly didn't know him better, she would dare say that he was starting to blush, pressed up against his best friend.

They remained that way for the span of the entire game, and when Rosie's team won, Molly jumped up, cheering for her niece.

This was only one of many games, though.

"Lestrade decided to come along, this time," John mentioned passingly. He was washing dishes in the flat and Molly was drying, as she had been invited over for dinner. "Rosie practically begged him to come see after he said he played a bit of rugby in uni, so now he's pretty much guaranteed to arrive." At this she smiled.

"That much of a pushover for Rosie?"

"Scared of her wrath, more like, if he doesn't make it." She hummed.

"Makes sense."

"Rosamund in a rage is a sight to behold, even if it's the last thing you'll ever see," he said, a sentiment which would have almost been fond if it wasn't accompanied by a shudder.

Well then. Lestrade was joining their rugby support group.

How would Rosie manage to inconspicuously shove her fathers together via matches now, Molly had wondered.

The solution, in fact, came with a fundraiser.

With baleful eyes, two rugby girls sat behind a foldable white table with an enormous dispenser in the middle. A stack of white cups were held behind their operation.

"It's just one pound for a steaming cup of hot chocolate," one pleaded, batting her eyelashes innocently. "The rugby team really needs the money for competition and every little bit counts." Ah, so they were bleeding money out of the folks on the benches. Effective, she had to admit, given how absolutely dismal it had been.

"Sorry, but I don't have any cash on me," Molly said, sidestepping the table. It was a shame, though. Hot chocolate would be more than welcome at the moment.

She sat down at the far end of the bleachers, just like any other time, watching the rugby girls' lucrative business with a chuckle. In another life, they might have been wonderful con artists.

"Hi, Molly," comes the voice of Lestrade, partnered with a friendly smile and a styrofoam cup in hand. Clearly, he hadn't been able to avoid the sale. "How are you?"

"Freezing and very, very tired," she responded, shivering on que. With a frown, he handed her his cup. "What are you doing?"

"I don't need this, I was just guilted into buying it. You could probably use it right now." She blinked before slowly taking the tiny glass from his fingers.

"Thanks, Greg," she muttered, her face already filling with red at the sudden warmth. The hot chocolate was sure to be scalding, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing given the weather. "I'll pay you back." He waved her off.

"Don't bother. It's nothing." Sherlock and John, ten minutes later, arrived last, and John instantly veered towards the hot chocolate booth.

"Can we have a - "

"We're pretty much out of cups, Mr. Watson, but Rosie saved you two a glass," smirked the girl behind the table, holding up a hand. "You'd better go find a seat." Molly stifled a laugh. Lestrade glanced at her curiously.

"What's wrong?" the officer asked, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"Rosamund's trying to set up her fathers. It's amazing they haven't noticed before now. John plays into her hands beautifully at these matches."

"Really?" he hummed, starting to laugh. "I've got to see this."

"It's subtle is the problem. I'm starting to think it's more of a conspiracy theory than anything else."

"Yeah, then - "

"Can we move past you?" John questioned politely, cup in hand. Sherlock flicked the lapels of his coat upwards against the wind. Wordlessly, Molly and Lestrade made way so that the two men could sit behind them, scrunched up in the corner like always. By now, Molly was fairly sure Rosamund had warned off all of the other parents in order to reserve that spot. "It's really bloody cold outside, isn't it?"

"Good thing Rosie left you cocoa, then," Molly responded, trying to keep the amusement off of her face. It wasn't working.

"Yes, I'm sure John's appreciative," the detective mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. The doctor glared at him.

"We can share. You know that, right?"

"We can, but I don't drink that much anyhow, and she only left one cup for a reason."

"Sherlock Holmes, beneath all of your genius you are a normal human being and I know for a fact that you could use a hot drink. Take a sip, for god's sake."

"John, you're being ridiculous. Really, I'm okay."

"Sherlock . . . "

"John . . . " Predictably, the detective lost that battle and ended up snatching the glass from his partner's hands in a fit of annoyance. Lestrade shot Molly a glance that said 'you're seeing this, right?' while they bickered.

It's a little bit adorable, actually.

"Good, Holmes?" The words are genuinely inquisitive, and the blonde's companion rolls his eyes without any of the usual bite.

"Yes, it's good, Watson. It's overly sugary, though. Typical of eleven year olds, really - the concentration could use more balance." It's a run of the mill Sherlock response, but his cheeks are pinched with red in a way that might have nothing to do with the cold.

After that, Greg made an effort to come to every match, more to watch his top consulting detectives than anything else.

"It's like seeing a terrible chick flick in which the main characters are totally oblivious to the fact that they're being set up," the officer explained to the brunette, and she nodded in agreement.

"A soap opera you really shouldn't be invested in but can't stop watching."

"Exactly!"

Perhaps Rosamund had done her job a little too efficiently, at the pitch. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes always did something insanely couple-y without trying to that it was a miracle her plot hadn't been unveiled already.

There was two months ago:

"I couldn't find my coat today, Sherlock, but you didn't have to give me yours."

"Yes I did. You were cold. The logical solution is that I give you mine."

"I swear I put it back in the closet! I know I did, and clearly you didn't take it." Molly could guess who stole it. "But speaking of missing clothing, where are my jumpers?"

" . . . Perhaps I set one on fire. As an experiment, of course."

"An experiment? Just one, really?"

"Maybe two. Possibly three. You need to do repeat trials for a reliable result, of course."

"I'm warning you, Sherlock, you need to control yourself. I can't keep going shopping for new sweaters every single time you decide to destroy them."

"Please. They're ugly. I'm doing society a favor."

"I'm going to have to start walking around shirtless, soon."

"I don't see anyone complaining."

" _Sherlock_."

"Boys, boys, your daughter has the ball," Molly had interjected, effectively cutting off further argument. Then, they had calmed down, but then two weeks later:

"This reminds me of that football movie, for some reason. Sherlock, what was the one about the Indian girl who wanted to play football?"

"That was  _Bend it Like Beckham_ , John, and it was only on two nights ago. Your recall is horrific."

"Right. Good movie, though. Good cast." The detective snorted.

"Her closeted friend was ridiculous, though. Beckham isn't all that attractive, anyhow. It would have made far more sense if he had developed a crush on one of his close male friends instead of a visually unappealing celebrity with football history. That's how the real world works." This was, Molly thought, the closest they would get to a confession from Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade, as if thinking the same thing, raised his eyebrow in correspondence.

"I'm sure lots of people had celebrity crushes, Sherlock, and Beckham was a successful player. Anyhow, what would you know about the way the poor guy's crushing habits work?" The ebony haired man huffed, crossing his arms.

"It's not exactly a secret that I like men and women, John, males in particular, even if I rarely feel attracted to anyone specific. It's intriguing personalities that I look for. So yes, I know how gay crushes work. I don't live under a rock."

" . . . I mean, I've never given your sexuality much thought, or my own for that matter, but that's fine. I guess I'm the same. It's more the person than the gender that I care about, even though I'm more inclined towards women. I just never . . . I don't know, met a bloke I fancied like that."

"You'd date a man? I thought you were straight."

"Again, never gave it much thought. But sure, I guess I'd go out with a guy, but I'd have to really like the individual."

"Interesting."

"Can this riveting discussion on sexual identity maybe wait until after I've left?" Greg said, the words coming out as more of a plea than a question. Again, they shut up, though Molly is entirely convinced that the rustling noises behind her came from John pinching his partner and vice versa in retaliation.

A month later, this happened, too:

"Holmes, what are you doing?"

"As miraculous as it is, John, I haven't rested in over three days, and as soon as we get home we'll be back on the case. I'm not getting anything done now, so I might as well sleep."

"No, no, I get that part, but why are you leaning on me?"

"You're going to be my pillow. I'm sorry, Watson, but I can't exactly lean on a random stranger and use their shoulder as a headrest. You'll have to do."

"Great, I'm being demoted to a glorified headrest."

"Pillows don't talk, you know."

"Neither do unconscious people. Look, just get comfortable already and fall asleep, I'll wake you up later."

"I knew you'd see it my way."

"Sure, Sherlock. Whatever you say."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, John." In minutes, the detective was lightly snoring on the bench, and the doctor's arm was around his waist so he wouldn't fall over. It remained there for the rest of the game.

Of course, then there was today, and nobody Molly frankly couldn't forget about the events of today if she tried.

She was proud of her niece, though. A little in awe of her conniving streak, but proud nonetheless.

At first, it was shaping up to be a disappointingly drama-less afternoon. Though everyone was packed like sardines, as per usual, Sherlock and John had yet to bicker like teenagers again, which was, sadly, half the reason Molly came to these matches. Sure, she loved Rosie, but this? This was the entertainment aspect of the night that she lived for.

And then, her niece came over, grinning, absolutely filthy from rugby.

"Did you see the last play? That was awesome!" Rosamund exclaimed, not caring about the way her uniform was slathered in dirt.

"We saw," Molly replied warmly, ruffling her hair as it attempted to escape her ponytail. "Quite a game."

"You don't even understand rugby, though."

"I don't have to to know that you're wonderful at it."

"I would hug you, but I'd get you all messy."

"I appreciate the sentiment behind that, then."

"Honestly, I came right from the station and these clothes are going in the wash later anyways. I'll hug you," Greg shrugged, and with a crooked smirk Rosie complied, squeezing him as hard as possible.

"Thanks for showing up, by the way. You don't have to."

"Of course I do. I can't miss one of your matches. When you become famous, you better send me tickets, alright?"

"Duh," she responded, rolling her eyes in a fashion greatly mimicking Sherlock's. It was almost funny to see it on the face of an eleven year old. "Anyways, I'd better get going." Her blonde father nodded.

"Okay, well we'll just grab a cab and - "

"No, Daddy, tonight's the sleepover, remember?" the young girl said, crossing her arms.

Right. The rugby team was hosting a sleepover tonight at the captain's house.

Hey, at least 'Aunt Molly' hadn't been the only person to let that thought slip her mind.

"The sleepover?" John cast a look at Sherlock, who nodded.

"The sleepover. Tonight. At Jessica Somethingorother's place."

"Jessabelle Norton, actually, but close enough," Rosamund corrected, hefting her duffel bag. "I've got my stuff right here, so just pick me up at noon tomorrow. You have the address, Dad?"

"I've got it, yes," the detective answered with his usual exasperation, as if she couldn't ask a more ridiculous question.

"Good. Dinner's on the table, so you'll be fine. I love you guys!" She quickly kissed them both on the cheek, as a regular squeeze would have covered them in grime, before running off to reunite with her teammates.

"Wait, dinner's on the table? She made dinner?" Watson repeated to himself after she left. He turned to Sherlock. "Did you know about this?"

"What makes you think I knew?"

"You're Sherlock bloody Holmes, don't you know everything?"

"Apparently not, John. How inconvenient, I know. It would make solving cases significantly easier, I must say."

"Apparently, since we already have dinner made, would you like to accompany us back, Molly?" the doctor invited, shaking his head. "Frankly, I haven't been in the kitchen since breakfast, so I have no idea what she's done since she got back from school, but hopefully you'll enjoy it."

"Why not?" This was her incredibly naive response.

Oh, how blind she had been.

The kitchen, for one, was spotless, without a dirty dish in sight. Two plates laden with pasta salad sat on the table, next to eachother, with Sherlock's experiments neatly shoved to the side for once without being disrupted. A pair of cocktails - yes, cocktails, because apparently her eleven year old niece could make cocktails now - sat innocently on the counter, and an electric candle was placed in the center of their meal.

Pasta a la candlelight, apparently. Molly should have known.

Of course Rosie wouldn't pass up the chance to further the bonding process while she wasn't around. Naturally, this would have been made into a date of sorts.

It was kind of hilarious, in a way.

What was less hilarious, though, was the fact that John instantly started choking on air the instant he understood what was happening. Sherlock stood next to him, awkwardly patting his back and generally looking very concerned. This continued for another five minutes while Molly spectated, resisting the urge to call Greg and inform him of this new development.

John got the clever idea to text his daughter.

Hey, why did you plan a date for your dad and I?

_What do you mean, Daddy?_

I mean I nearly died of a stroke a few minutes ago when I saw what looked like a romantic venue.

_Ah, that would be problematic, huh?_

You think?! A candle, Rosamund. A bloody candle.

_It gets dark without the lights on, so I figured I'd put one there so you could see. And?_

What about the drinks? Where did you learn how to make cocktails and why would you?

_I got curious. I wanted to try out a new internet recipe. Consider it an experiment, minus the human liver and toes in the freezer._

John glanced at his partner.

"There are toes in the freezer?" The tall man shrugged in response.

Yes, alright, but two plates of italian? Seriously?

_Well, there are two of you, right?_

Molly came over, too.

There was silence on the other end as if Rosamund was considering her options.

_Make her a sandwich or something, then. I may have left some leftover pasta in the fridge for tomorrow if that helps._

So, I guess you're alright . . .

_Why did you get so freaked out about going on a date with Dad, though? Are you scarrreeeedddddd?_

No, of course not.

John typed that text out almost instantly.

_Riiiiiiiiiight._

Rosie . . .

_Kidding, kidding. Give Dad a kiss goodnight for me._

Very clever.

_Awwwwwww . . ._

I love you.

_Love you, too. Tell Aunt Molly I love her too!_

Bye, Rosie.

_Bye, Daddy ;)_

Oh, her niece was good.

Better than good, actually. Rosamund, even at age eleven, was a mastermind in the making, and Molly was a proud witness.

Honestly, if they didn't get together before Rosie moved out, due to rugby alone, Molly would be surprised.

It turns out that sports matches can be interesting, after all.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes wasn't accustomed to being in complete darkness. The partial depths of night from inside the great shadows of 221B, sure, but the lamps from the streets always cast enough light to work with. The underbelly of London contained in passages and subway tunnels, certainly, but the dim glow of his and John's respective phones were usually enough to see with. Even on the few occasions someone dared to kidnap him, the perpetrators preformed a shoddy job with tying the blindfolds, and the faint impressions of movement and bright spots lingered beneath the edges of the cloth.

Today was different. There was no languid 2am streetlight, no cellphone screen, no itchy blindfold with a terrible knot.

Perhaps, he deduced, someone had upped their game and kidnapped him with some efficiency for once. Maybe he was simply in a pitch black room without any windows. Or, just possibly, he was finally dead and consigned to purgatory, if such a mortal, foolish concept existed.

Wait, no. His eyes were just closed, actually.

The detective almost feels embarrassed, thinking about it.

With a great deal more effort than it should have taken, he forces his eyelids to retreat, and his vision, blurry and patchy from a distinct lack of use, begins to restore itself.

Sherlock is in a hospital.

Certainly, this isn't good.

Right, well, he's laying on a bed, for starters. That's something, isn't it?

So he's the injured sop in this scenario. That rarely happens.

The sheets are starchy, most likely new, and the tacky blue paint on the walls seems fresh. Given the distinct absence of any particular lingering scents, this room hasn't been in use for very long, or at the very least, it's rarely used. However, he's willing to bet money on the prior notion. It's clearly a hospital, and given the sheer number of cases and accidents London goes through, keeping a single cell out of commission would make no practical sense.

So, it's a new hospital, only open for about five months at most. Now it's only a matter of  _which_  hospital.

No . . . No, open a year, not five months or less . . . ah, the only new outfit within London under those descriptions is St Bartholomew's new sister branch, a recent commission undertook by a private benefactor. It's been open to public use for the last four months and two weeks. This means he's in southern London, near the outskirts of the city, about a thirty minute drive from his flat and his experiments and his Watsons.

Good. He wants to check out and be back in his own, far more familiar bed as soon as possible.

Why is he in a hospital, though? He doesn't recall being sick, or much of anything that would lead to a sick visit.

Sherlock tries to sit up and reassess his state when he instantly winces, recoiling.

Ah, he knows that sting. A nasty scrape from a gunshot, probably acquired during on of their many cases. The fact that he doesn't remember something as damning as a bullet to the side is also indicative of a minor head trauma, which fits considering his distortion and the dull throbbing at the back of his skull.

Brilliant. A head injury.

Now he knows where he is and what's happened, more or less, he can deduce how to leave and who's with him. How long has he been out?

This time, instead of pushing up, he blindly grabs for a button on the underside of the bed. With a self satisfied grin of success, he pushes the top arrow, and the headrest elevates slowly. A typical feature in the new models.

This is significantly better than his view of the ceiling and a small portion of the wall, especially since he can now spot Watson in the corner, slumped over in a very uncomfortable looking plastic chair.

"John," he starts, wincing at the harshness of the words. Odd - the scratchy quality of his vocal chords projected implies that they haven't been utilized in at least a day or so. They are tinny, rumbling in a way that most people suffer through in the mornings. However, he is not most people, and he is almost always talking, keeping his baritone in practice unintentionally.

Not a good sign.

" _John_ ," he repeats again, this time around with more force and direction in an effort to clear his passages. The doctor stirs, opening bleary eyes.

"Sherlock? You're awake?" he says, his lids peeling back at the speed of light.

"Yes, John, don't act so surprised," the detective responded, though he sounded far more  _fond_  than he intended.

"God, Holmes, how long have you been up? Was I out for long?"

"Well, I've been lucid for all of five minutes, tops, but you are slightly harder to puzzle out. Judging by how easy it was to rouse you, as it only took a few moments, my guess is, at most, a half and hour. If not you would have entered the next phase of sleep, inducing a deeper unconscious state and - "

"Do you have any idea how  _worried_  I was, Sherlock?" he says, and suddenly John Watson looks downright murderous. Normally, this wouldn't threaten Sherlock, as John was John and very unlikely to start a physical altercation, but seeing as he was lying in a hospital cot at the moment this could turn to the problematic. "I was here by your bed for a whole bloody  _thirty hours_!"

"Forgive me, Watson, but I actually have no idea why I'm in St Bartholomew. Could you please refresh my memory before scolding me for being unconscious?" With an incredulous, terrified look, John sat on the foot of his bed.

"We were on a case and we had the subject cornered. Lestrade's crew was on his way, only a block from the bloke's flat. However, he pulled a gun on me from across the room, safety off. He was a botanist, and you grabbed a handful of dirt and were prepared to throw it in the guy's eyes and disarm him, but as we distracted him, Lestrade arrived and Anderson kicked down the door. He accidentally pulled the trigger in surprise and you . . ." Watson swallowed, directing his gaze towards the ceiling. "You shoved me out of the way, you stupid man. He grazed your side fairly badly and you hit your head on the corner of a desk. I didn't . . ." He swallowed again. "At first, I thought you were dead, Holmes. You've been in a coma-like state for the last several hours and I've been scared out of my bloody mind that you might not wake up." Initially, Sherlock puzzled over what a normal human response to this scenario would be. Surely there must be  _something_  he could say to calm John down. He was clearly very shaken by this.

"Well, I'm sure in a few days I'll be right as rain. When can I check out?" The doctor blinked.

"What?"

"I  _said_ , when do we get to leave and go home? I have several experiments going on at the flat that I need to catalog."

"I don't think you understand this, but you have a side full of stitches and you've experienced a serious head trauma. No, you're not leaving the hospital for at least the next few days." The detective blinked.

"John, I'll be alright. I'll be back on the job in no time; it's just a flesh wound."

"Just a flesh wound?" Watson sprang up, walking to the side of his partner's head in two short strides. "Just a  _flesh wound_ , Holmes?! You took a  _bullet_  for me!" The dark haired man shrugged.

"You would have done the same for me, John. You know you would have. In fact, Mary  _did_  do the same for me." Sadly, the brief mention of the doctor's late wife didn't distract him in the slightest. Perhaps more assessment was required.

"Of course I would have, Sherlock, but good God, that is not the point right now!" the doctor snapped, practically face planting.

"Then what is?"

"I don't want to see you in a hospital bed, on the back of an ambulance, ever, ever again." His blue eyes wavered as if beginning to drown in tears and memorabilia. "It was bad enough the first time they took you away."

"John, this is not Reichenbach," he said softly, daring to move his hand over John's. "I'm not leaving."

"I don't think you can make that choice as a ghost, Holmes. It should have been me. It should have been  _me_  on this stupid cot, you know that?"

"You're being irrational."

" _Me?_ " The ex-army man shuddered with a frightening, melancholy laughter. "Me, irrational? Sherlock, I thought you died again. I thought I  _\- "_

 _"_ It doesn't matter if I die," the detective whispered quietly, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. "John, you're not me. It wouldn't have mattered. You have Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Lestrade and Mike and Rosie. You don't need me." John stood solemnly at the side of the bed, looming over it like a hallowed specter, for once his passive features becoming completely unreadable.

"How can you even say that?"

" . . . What?"

"You really think you don't deserve this, don't you?" he mused, looking his partner directly in the eyes. "God, Sherlock, you said I had them, but did you ever think that maybe I need you too? That maybe I can't do this without you anymore, and neither can they?"

"You managed the first time around." John shook his head instantly.

"I was a wreck, even then, Holmes. If you died now, there would be nothing to put back together." The blonde brushed a thumb over the detective's knuckles in a tender fashion, skimming the skin with a quick swipe. "Bloody hell, mate, I have no idea what I'd do without you." At this point, and perhaps it was due in part to the drugs racing through his system and the brief charge of contact and those  _words_  - too honest, and far too Watson to be resisted - Sherlock was lost, and his legs were numb and his side ached and his mind was leaden but he knew he needed to do something.

In a surge of endorphins (he refuses to admit that chemical balances may have had nothing to do with it, so endorphins it is), he propels his face upwards in order to capture John Watson's lips.

It is not what he expected.

There are salty, surprised tears streaking down John's cheeks, and for the first few seconds everything tastes like saline. And then, he molds to the surface, learning the dips and curves of his partner's mouth, trying to memorize what it feels like to press against him like this. Then, there is tea leaves, a sweet undertone in contrast to the bitter, stinging drops of before, and traces of spearmint from a stick of gum, and it is a unique yet enticing taste.

In a completely unanticipated move - surprising, as Sherlock takes great care never to give into bodily impulses - he runs a tongue tip over Watson's teeth, finding the surface warm and smooth and somehow mesmerizing. As he leans in further, he finds himself moaning - an actual, full-bodied, rather embarrassing moan, and this is when he finally notices that John hasn't pushed him away for kissing him out of impulse, for enjoying the kiss fully because he figures it'll be the first and last chance he'll get to do so. Instead, John had closed his eyes and let it happen, leaning further over the side of the ridiculous hospital issue bed.

It's incredibly life-affirming, actually.

And so, Sherlock grips the front of his old sweater with hands still stiff from sleep, hands that would be very easy to disentangle from but haven't been shoved away yet, and he basks in the feeling of  _warmth_  in his gut that travels all throughout his synapses and into his toes. A warmth that only comes from John Watson, from being content.

He would say that this strange warmth was love, but that might be a little too presumptuous. It's not like Sherlock knows much of love, anyways - he's far too ornery, not made to handle an instrument other than scalpels and a microscope. A heart would not be a good thing to entrust him with, and yet, John's already been toying with his for the last several years. It seems fitting, almost.

But eventually, as they are simple organisms at their heart of hearts and they require oxygen for biological sustainment purposes - how dull - they end up pulling away, gasping for air. John's lips are puffy in a way that they haven't been in years, since long before his wife died, and it gives the detective an inexplicable wellspring of pride to know that he was the one kissing Watson senseless.

"That was . . ." the blonde begins, running a palm through his locks with wide eyes. He doesn't quite know how to finish, though, so instead he blushes a bright scarlet at the memory that took place only moments ago. "That, I mean . . ." Sherlock winces, anticipating the worst.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid_. For someone so smart, he can be so remarkably idiotic.

"I'm sorry to make you feel uncomfortable, John. I didn't want to - "

"That was brilliant," he completes, letting go of a breathy chuckle. "I haven't been snogged like that in years." Sherlock clears his throat weakly.

"You're . . . not offended? Not, I don't know, disgusted?"

"You're my best friend. Worst comes to worst, what, did you think I would just abandon you over one impulsive action?" he asked, moving his digits from his hair to his forehead. "And I liked it, I think." A small, almost impercievable smile comes to his face. "I liked kissing my best friend." The detective allowed that to sink in, replaying the words in his head.

"I don't expect anything from you over it. I'm not going to sit around and beg for something more if you're not willing to give anything. Heaven knows that with us and Rosamund and - "

"I'm sensing a 'but' in this sentence, Holmes."

Teasing. That's normal.

That's good, right?

Damn it all. There are too many hormones. Too difficult to predict the outcome.

"But maybe I didn't let you know this before and I should now. I've come to develop . . . lapses in coherency for you, John. Stirrings."

"You mean feelings, I take it?" Feelings. Sherlock had never been fond of the phrase. Feelings meant serious attraction, the kind with empathy, and empathy lead to an unbreakable attachment and he really can't stand to loose anybody like that. Anybody he cares too much about, though it may be a little too late for that now. Not saying anything, letting John have his space, hadn't stopped anything from developing, anyhow.

"Yes,  _feelings_ , John," he finds himself saying regardless. "Very, very private, one-sided ones. We sleep in the same  _bed_  John, do you recognize how precarious a position that would put our dynamic in?"

"You've never had a problem dancing with danger before."

"You've hardly ever been on the line before, either." He took a deep breath. "I'm not going to demand anything from you, Watson. You deserve better. But, perhaps, would you consider me? Is there a way you could possibly push past your many grievances - bloody hell, John, don't  _smirk_  like this is somehow funny, I'm very well aware of what I'm like to coexist with,  _thank you very much_  - and just tell me if I'd have a chance?" The blonde remained quiet, still smiling in a rather unnervingly distant fashion, and his gaze wandered to the floor as he thought. For an aching moment, the other man tensed, preparing in advance for a possible pitfall. Finally, a shaky sigh broke the silence.

"This is the stupidest thing I'm ever going to do, isn't it?" the blonde muttered softly at the cool tiles, shaking his head as if already blown away by the weight of his unspoken actions.

Eyes locked once more.

"I'm so happy you're still alive, you idiot," he says, and it's not some grand gesture or romantic intonation, but it  _works_. He brushes a few strands of ebony out of his best friend's face and gives him a small squeeze on the shoulder. "How's that for an answer?"

"Pretty wonderful," he says, briefly reaching out and squeezing back. Suddenly, he is grinning, a wide, spectacular,  _real_  beam, because he is happy, the one he only pulls out once in a while.

Happiness is rather exhausting, though, and he finds his arm growing heavier, his eyelids dropping inwards. The detective is drowsy again, as are most patients who need to succumb to the body's natural healing processes after a trying ordeal.

For once, he doesn't feel the need to fight it.

"I'm not going anywhere, you hear?"

It's the last thing he can make out - a worn, utterly familiar voice coming from his partner - before he willingly surrenders to the clutches of sleep.

* * *

Rosie had an inkling of what happened in the hospital room when her father comes out, face full of red and lips bruised. It's not exactly hard to spot, and she's always found her father particularly easy to read anyhow - John Watson, to his daughter, is about as subtle and secretive as a bull in a china store. His emotions are hard to miss, as they're often written all over his face.

She's been trying to secretively shove her parents together for nearly two years via rugby - hell, the whole  _team_  was on their side, silently trying to instigate an intervention without actually instigating an intervention.

A day in St Bartholomew, wondering if her Dad was going to wake up, was what prompted a make out? Seriously? Not the constant cramped quarters or the cuddling, but a serious head injury brought on by a murderous botanist going on a killing spree?

Well, it's certainly an interesting love story, for sure, if not a slightly disappointing commentary on her matchmaking skills.

Aunt Molly lifts an eyebrow, as she has been waiting with Lestrade and Rosamund for the last few hours in the hall, yet says nothing. Instead, she excuses herself for a bathroom break, sensing the start of a private conversation.

"So, you and Dad made out," the official teenager starts - being thirteen  _rules_. "I bet someone's happy about that, based on the dopey grin on your face."

"Sherlock's still Sherlock," he says, clearing his throat and giving his daughter a sideways glance. "It doesn't necessarily mean anything. It's not exactly a full blown  _thing_ , Rosamund, it's one kiss."

"But you enjoyed it."

"Well, yeah."

"And so did he." She looked her father up and down. His sweater was slightly untucked, as though someone had pulled at the middle of the fabric, and his irises clouded. It was almost too easy to draw the obvious conclusion. "Being the instigator, I'd imagine he had to."

"Yes, Ro."

"And once he's better, you're going to start dating like civilized people instead of batting around the issue like the terrified children you are."

"That's a lot to - "

"Well, aren't you? Daddy, I love you, but you can't be this dense." Rosamund's dad, the great John Watson, co-consulting detective and doctor extraordinaire, almost appeared nervous, like a child getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "You've actually begun to feel something for  _Sherlock Holmes_ , Daddy, and that's fairly serious to me. I suggest you actually start going out already to put the rest of the civilized world out of its misery."

" . . . Did you know? That he . . . you know," the man mused, frazzled in a good way. "And you think it's a good idea? God, it came out of absolutely no where, and I have a feeling this is going to start moving all too fast, you know? And I'm terrified because I  _like_  this. I'm actually looking forward to it."

Rosamund didn't consider herself an expert on the human condition. How could she be, at only thirteen? And although she adored that age - not too young to be treated like a child, not too old to be underestimated, which was often a great asset, and a prime number, made for mathematical appreciation - it didn't come with the perks a long, lucrative life did, such as wisdom. Humanities alluded her, though general cleverness couldn't. While this may be true, however, she was a fair sight more observant than the majority of the population thanks to her upbringing, and that came with sensibilities that would have otherwise flown over her head.

"I think that's what being in love is, Daddy," she told him, hugging her father tightly. "It's not meant to make sense. It's messy and horrid and makes you do dangerously stupid things. It's supposed to cloud your better judgement, and I think if you ever feel like you have it all figured out, if you're not aching all over or falling too fast or dropping too hard, then you're doing it wrong. Love is terrible, and wonderful, because it lets someone see the absolute worst in you and forces you to test yourself over and over again. You're meant to drown, but enjoy letting the water crash overhead."

"Rosamund," he begins cautiously, pulling away slightly. "When did you get to be so damn  _smart_? I know you didn't learn it when I was around. I think I would have noticed." The blonde smiles, a clever, crooked thing that soon becomes blinding in the thin, sterile hallway.

"When I was hanging out with Dad. When I was talking with Aunt Molly. When I was baking with Mrs. Hudson." He nods, ever so slightly, a spark of understanding that she can almost perceive hanging in the air.

"Well, then, thank god for that."

"Pretty great, huh?"

"Elementary, darling."

_Elementary._

What a curious phrase.

For the longest time, she enjoyed complex words, the ones with pretty notations. Brooding, in particular, was such a funny one. Prerogative, derivative, inclination, prose, meandering, hydrogenous - there were so many beautiful, multifaceted notations to choose from. Collecting words had become a bit of a game for her, over the years, but elementary was the one she liked being called the most. There was something odd about it, something ornamental and antique yet soothing, endearing, even, that drew her in.

 _Elementary_. Indeed, this was what she aspired to be, and she took a great pride in her achievement of that grand title.

And only one week later, something even more elementary than her own intelligence rolls around in the form of a disgruntled Sherlock Holmes, arriving back at 221B after the accident, which he can now recall and recite in depth, perhaps too much so for her other father's liking. He moves around in a slow, even pace, still recovering, and John Watson hovers over him at all times like he's afraid the tall figure is a piece of ceramic about to burst. Rosamund is less worried - the mischievous spark in his eyes is still present, as is the molten steel resolve. Sherlock Holmes is certainly not going anywhere - not her Dad. Not now.

The house is more alive with both parents securely back inside, and even the light that pools at the foot of her windows is brighter, somehow. It possesses a new, iridescent quality, a shimmer that had been lacking. His experiments, which she has been taking care of so fondly, are back in the hands of their proper owner. She can only hope she's diluted the acids correctly - her private sessions with her father on advanced chemistry have been falling behind due to their most recent case, and so she's mainly going off deduction and prior knowledge. But Avogadro's number and gram to molarity conversions haven't failed her yet, so anything is possible.

Everything is blissfully abnormal again, and it suits their family like a glove, she supposes. Just the three of them.

"John, I'm tired. I think I'd like to retire to bed," Sherlock mentions suddenly, stopping his private conquest of the violin and placing the instrument gingerly on the windowsill. His lips pucker up as if having tasted something sour. "Bedtimes. At nine at night. Distasteful." However, as he walks towards the downstairs bedroom, John reaches out with a smile.

"Wait for me to finish cleaning up and I'll join you." The detective doesn't grin - not after giving into the biological need to sleep, of course, because the practices of mere mortals are so very tedious, but he does straighten his back, relax his hands, loosen the knots in his forehead, and frankly that's just as good as if he had smiled, anyways.

So. Maybe some things have changed for the better, Rosamund figures. As to where it can go - well, one would hope there's only up from here.

Now  _that_  seems elementary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I hope everyone who made it this far has had fun reading this. It was pretty great to write, from my perspective; fanfiction really just gives me an outlet for creativity and a way to develop my personal style with prose, so it's beneficial from both ends. But I gotta say, it's readers who encourage me to keep going. Thanks for all the nice reviews and the few kudos I've gotten, it was much appreciated!  
> Next week I'll be uploading the next chapter here and concluding the main part, by which point the two-part epilogue will kick in. I swear I will get that last bit done eventually.  
> Eventually.  
> Bye, and have a great day!


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here is the final part of the initial trilogy.   
> I had something clever to say, but I forgot it. So, with no further ado, enjoy!

"Thanks for coming, Molly," John says, smiling widely, and the woman slowly takes in the scene. The blonde man is wearing a fitted blue button up instead of a sweater - the one Mrs. Hudson purchased him last Christmas, she believes - and he smells odd. Not like tea leaves and 221B and London nights, but like . . . Well, she can't quite describe it, but Molly's sure she's experienced the scent before in a perfume catalog of sorts.

John Watson is wearing a nice shirt and cologne.

He was actually making an effort.

Her friend was seriously going through with this after all these years.

"I'm more than glad to come and spend the night with my favorite niece and the Doctor, John," she said, patting him on the shoulder and stepping inside. She thrust off her jacket and perched it on a coat rack, which had been Rosamund's present to her guardians on father's day. The fourteen year old had proclaimed that, in exact words, 'just because you two investigate crime scenes doesn't mean our landing has to look like one'. Lestrade had laughed about it for  _hours_. "You make a telly marathon at your flat sound like some sort of favor." He scratches the back of his neck.

"Yeah, well, I know it's not exactly torture, but it's nice that you could come over on such short notice just for Rosamund."

"Like I'd let you miss your first date, John," she quips, rolling her eyes, but the doctor turns slightly pinker all the same.

"It's not so much a date as it is us eating outside the house. We're just getting some thai," he said, tugging at his sleeves. "I mean, we're not exactly made for romance. I just got off work, got cleaned up, and - "

"It's a date!" called Rosamund from upstairs. She emerged in the stairwell with a grin. "Stop trying to be all secretive and sneaky. The whole world knows it's a date." John Watson frowned, looking rather murderous, but Rosie bounded down to the landing, all fits and giggles and without a trace of unease. "What? It's true."

That, Molly could affirm.

You see, it wasn't exactly hard to notice the subtle shift in the dynamic of Watson and Holmes. There had always been lingering brushes, unwavering eye contact, and communication without speaking a word, and these notations only increased in their frequency and potency when the Watsons moved into 221B. However, since their clear foray past the lines of friendship and into the realm of an ominous, rather ill-defined 'something more', something had slipped. John had the rather embarrassing habit of flushing whenever anybody brought up the nature of their relationship, and Sherlock treated him with an air of closeness that wasn't there previously. It was an odd, if not tender change, the addition of warmth in the air. It's the way he carefully examines John after a particularly trying chase, making sure he is still alive and still  _there_ , an urge he has diligently made sure to suppress or ignore in years prior. It's the way he asks the man silly questions, almost unnoticeable boughts of irregularity, like 'how was you day' or 'are you tired' or 'you are okay, right'. It's the way he grips his hand tightly after the success of a case, squeezing it firmly and not pulling away for a second.

John never shoved him off or frowned or jerked abruptly in surprise at these strange notions. Instead, he reveled in them, savored them, the acts of acceptance and enjoyment written in everything he did.

It's clear, to those who knew where to look, that Sherlock Holmes was letting his guard down for once, allowing the world to know he was smitten as opposed to stashing away his feelings, and John Watson was just as pleased. Of course, it was easy to follow and observe this change in dynamic - many of them had guessed at its romantic inclination over the years, and the fact that it was just now coming to light did little to affect that fundamental. However, their efforts to 'take things slowly' or 'keep it under wraps' seemed to pale, due to this longstanding commitment, but this was their business. Let them handle romanticisms how they will.

Still, Rosie was right, and it was a little ridiculous, seeing John Watson, a mature, adult man, be nervous and antsy and flustered as a schoolboy for something as simple as going out to eat with a colleague. When it came to Sherlock Holmes, an air of dramatics and a healthy dose of unusual followed around anyhow, though - perhaps the element of ridiculousness was called for. In an event, the army doctor had made a concerted effort and actually cared about the outcome - this was what  _made_  it a date, so far.

Fat lot of good that would do, though, to get John to admit to anything. He really thought they could manage to cultivate something without the press or the investigative team or even  _Rosamund_ shoving their noses in. And she was Rosie Watson, a girl much akin to a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out her fathers' relationship status, or lack thereof in the years previous. Nevertheless, this was the world they lived in, and nothing Molly could say or do would change them. It's simply in their nature.

"I really wish I could ground you, somedays," John finally said, glaring at his daughter without much effort. He sounded exasperated. "Unfortunately, Sherlock's gotten to you, blast him. You're just as likely to unhinge your door or slip out the window or blow holes in the wall as retaliation. Grounding doesn't really work, does it?" As Rosie shrugged, actually taking that comment seriously.

"You could try, but it wouldn't do a lick of good," Rosamund eventually affirmed. "I've got an awful lot of Dad in me, huh?" The doctor considered this for a moment.

"You know, I think I need to send a card to your grandparents," the blonde man sighed, reacting much as if the revelation had hit him right between the eyes. "A thank you card. And a very long one, at that." The teenager cocked her head.

"Why a thank you card?"

"To thank them for raising Sherlock  _and_  Mycroft without going bloody wankers. God, they're both hard enough to handle on their own, but can you imagine what it must have been like to wrangle the both at age five? And then their teenage years . . ." John's face was the depiction of pure terror. "It's a miracle they're survived this long, actually. Or past the first ten years of parenthood, period."

Molly tried to stifle her encroaching laughter. As she's learned in her many years as companion to the residents of 221B Baker Street, you cannot allow yourself to treat everything its occupants say or do without some sort of levity - otherwise you will be weathered by severity and become depressed, or insensitive to horrors altogether, which might possibly be worse. It's an occupational hazard of disregarding the warnings and becoming friends to a high functioning sociopath and his familial entourage.

Still, Sherlock Holmes as a petulant five year old?

However had the world survived?

"How horrific," Molly commented, anyhow.

"Quite."

"I almost want to tell Dad you said that," Rosie interrupted, cutting into the conversation once more. "The thought of sending a card to Grandma and Grandpa Holmes,  _thanking_  them for anything, would probably drive him up a wall. You'd be sleeping on the couch for a month." Watson ran a hand over his face.

"Rosie, just go and set up the telly, won't you?" She pouted viciously but did as she was told, walking into the living area and slipping a Doctor Who disc inside of a player. John watched her leave, frowning in a way that didn't quite reach his eyes.

If nothing else, it could be said with conviction that John Watson adored his family, possibly more than life itself.

"Just to be on the safe side, though, you won't say anything, right?" he responded, and Molly almost found it funny that he was concerned.

"My lips are sealed, John," she assured anyhow.

"221B carries sound remarkably well, wouldn't you agree?" comes the cold, analytical, yet somehow amused rumbling of another voice, and she nearly falls backwards when she realizes he's  _right there_.

"Sherlock! Oh my god, what was that for?" the woman says, trying to catch her breath after jumping back almost three feet. John looks just as startled, but the pale white of fright seems to have canceled out the rosy tones of before, and his skin appears nearly normal now.

"Fun," he replies simply, with no further explanation. A smile quirks at the edges of his lips. "Perhaps a minuscule observation or two." Molly slapped him on the chest, regardless.

"Well just don't  _do_  that, you're going to give me a heart attack some day!"

"Nonsense. We have a capable doctor on our hands - you would survive the shock," he intoned, dismissing the thought as though the very notion was preposterous. "And in the unlikely circumstance that you needed resuscitation, I have the necessary implements for the procedure on hand. You'd be absolutely fine." she glared fiercely, anyhow.

"You're horrid, sometimes."

"Possibly, but I'm sure you've all grown accustomed to it by now. If not, you ought to have walked away a long time ago." He's grinning, now, and so is John, and she is simply not made for anger. She cannot keep ahold of the feeling for more than a matter of minutes, so she sighs and smiles with them.

"A burden I'm forced to bear," the brunette states instead, hugging John and patting Sherlock on the arm, before moving into the living room after her niece. "Have fun on your date, by the way!" John blushes once more but doesn't correct her, sliding his wallet into his pocket.

"Ready to go, Sherlock?"

"Of course." As they leave through the door, Sherlock pauses, slipping on his coat and turning back towards Molly. "And, we will."

"Good, then," she affirms, shooing them away with a flick of her wrist. The entrance slams shut in a rather satisfying manner behind them.

Now it is just her and Rosie, alone with a stack of Doctor Who programs.

Paradise, almost.

"Sit down, it's starting," begs her niece, brandishing the remote much like a sword. "I've got snacks."

"Aren't you a little old to ask me to babysit?" Molly questions as she settles down next to her. "I mean, I thought you'd hate having someone watch you. You were always so independent, you know." Rosamund shrugged.

"I like asking you to come over when they leave. It's nice, spending time with my aunt." And damn it all if that wasn't such a good answer. Molly nearly cried for no reason.

She hadn't been part of a huge family, growing up. Her father had died in her teenage years and she didn't have any aunts or uncles. Her maternal grandmother and mother were her only relatives, and even then, her gran had been in a bad way for years. She passed off a little less than a decade ago, and now it was just Molly and her mum, alone together.

Except for her friends, of course. She had Mrs. Hudson, who was practically another mother, and John, who was quite a kind, strong man, and she fancied him as something of a brother, if she had ever had one. Sherlock was slightly harder to place, as she used to have a crush the size of the moon on him for ages, but eventually she learned to consider him as a close friend, if not an easily disgruntled one, or perhaps the person her 'brother' was dating. Their feelings were far from platonic, anyways, so that part didn't much matter. Mycroft, in the few times she had met him, came off as a well-meaning, slightly odd and severe, estranged cousin. He cared, but at a concealed distance - it's far less easy to get hurt that way, but she knew Mycroft did love them, in his own strange version. Their parents, Sherlock and Mycroft's, were delightful, almost like in laws, which she obviously didn't possess yet, as one needs to be married to have in laws.

This very likely wouldn't happen. She knows that she isn't the prettiest, or the smartest, or the strongest, and that hasn't ever bothered her. She wanted to get married and have children and start a family - preferably a big one, so that nobody would ever be alone, so it would never go back to her and her mother and nothing - but that was simply not how it panned out.

In a way, she did raise children, through Rosamund. Her niece, for all the empty title meant, was a big part of her entire world. She  _loved_  Rosie fiercely, and she was the closest to a daughter she would ever get to having. But there was no mistaking who her actual parents were, and Rosie adored them. Molly was there, too, as her aunt, as Rosamund had just stated, and that was enough. That was always enough.

Greg Lestrade, she never quite knew where to put on her family tree. Frankly, she was just honored to consider him as part of it, part of the family. He's been good to all of them, over the years, but he never quite fit the mold of 'brother' or 'close friend' or 'estranged cousin' like the other men in her life did. He's a bit of a wild card, and for now she's just contentedly shuffled him into the territory of 'best friend'. He's the closest she's got to one, she supposes. She doesn't have that many friends, and all of them are raving mad, anyways, but he jokes with her at every single one of Rosie's rugby games. He brings her coffee on the rare occasions he has to barge into the morgue for investigative duties, and he's always willing to listen to her or comment on her work or just  _thank_  her for putting up with all of this craziness.

He's her friend, and she gets the feeling he doesn't have much of anybody either.

But surely she can't keep him confined to such an oddly shaped role forever. She has to find a more permanent place for Lestrade, somewhere, and in the past few months it has messed with her mind, not being able to pinpoint a spot that someone so dear to her should be occupying.

"Aunt Molly, are you okay? You spaced out for a second," Rosie questions, nose scrunched up. Her smile loosens, though, when she realizes the pun. "Spaced out. Doctor Who. I'm a genius." The brunette shakes the confusion out of her skull and ruffles Rosamund's hair.

"Clever as always."

She was, wasn't she?

"Oh, here's the good part! I love this episode," the teenager sighed, burying her face into Molly's shoulder and the couch cushions. "Ten is great."

"I'm rather partial to Capaldi, myself," she hummed, immersing herself in the telly program. "He's my favorite version, I believe."

"Really? Why not Eleven or Nine or someone else? Those are the usual favorites."

"I don't know, actually. Twelve was just . . . well presented, I guess. You really get a feel for him as a character, and he portrays the Doctor beautifully."

"Ah. I still think Ten is great, though."

"Of course."

Their marathon stretched long into the night. After nearly six hours of Doctor Who, Sherlock and John reemerged. They were laughing as they headed into the stairwell, hanging up coats and removing shoes with a joviality rarely witnessed in the duo. Their hands, as she took care to notice, had been clasped together when they first opened the door, and even as they trudged up the stairs, their fingers instinctively angled towards eachother, as if trying to brush.

It's sweet, she thinks. It's nice to see them happy.

For a brief moment, she wonders if she could have had that, too. With some faceless man, in some indefinite time.

Perhaps she's been expending too much thought on this. There's no use pining after what you cannot have.

"It was great," is all John chooses to reveal on their night out, and frankly this is all that Molly expected he would share. He's found some sort of solace in whatever relationship he and Sherlock have cultivated, and giving out all the details might spoil the effect. It's all so new, an official romance, and he's reluctant to mess it up yet.

However, he's not blushing out of embarrassment or being caught off guard, and he's smiling widely. John Watson is more at ease, happier, and this is evident in every line of his face. That tells her everything she would have wanted to glean about their date - as long as they're alright, she's more than content to leave the rest alone.

Rosamund isn't so easily satisfied. She pokes and prods and analyzes her fathers with scrutiny, hoping to gain new information on the state of their romantic entanglement. It's slightly ironic, actually; most girls her age are obsessed with bands, boys, and beauty, while Rosie is far more interested in her parents' private life, advanced chemistry, and the art of deduction.

Even Rosamund's intense prying couldn't shake their matching grins, though, and as she fires questions at them, John and Sherlock exchange glances in an unspoken communication. Molly can't tell if they're bemused or annoyed or, just possibly, a healthy mix of both, but reading people has never been her strong suit. She will leave that to them.

In the next month, they go out another four times.

By the third, they have had a grand total of nine dates.

The fifth marks a solid fifteen forays, many of which Molly has 'babysat' for.

Sometimes Lestrade would accompany - Mrs. Hudson, too, once or twice, but mainly Lestrade. Molly still hasn't decided where to place him in the grand scheme of things. She adores him - he's a wonderful companion, kind, and genuine, and that's far more than what she could say for most of the other men she's encountered - but has no idea what to make of his presence. She loves being around him, and hanging out with him and Rosie while Watson and Holmes were away was great, but she can never quite decipher her feelings on the matter.

She's rubbish at feelings. Always has been. She has a nasty way of investing her heart into things and people that betray her, that are unreachable, that let her down - sometimes all three. The brunette, for all her kindness, has learned to lock up her emotions and tuck them in a drawer, right next to romantic notions. When Rosamund was born, she knew she wanted to be someone the girl could count on, and Molly didn't want a string of heartbreak to get in the way of that. She couldn't take care of people while crushed and in pieces again.

Sure, she had friends she loved dearly. They were not friends, they were family members. She had passions, likes and dislikes, affections. But indicators of crushes she shut down in record time, kept tidily away.

Maybe she was having so much trouble placing Lestrade, in the last few months, because he was a friend that wouldn't betray her, had an actual interest in her, laughed at her jokes, and spent times with her out of want and not obligation. Maybe she could never give him a more permanent role besides 'best friend', over the years in Rosie's life that they'd come to know eachother in, because she was afraid of falling for him, too.  _Sherlock Holmes_ , for god's sake, was bad enough. Greg Lestrade would be far worse. He could never hide behind stoic attitudes and severity - he would tell her outright that he thought she was lovely, but not in  _that_  way.

Being crushed is ever so  _hard_. Picking up the pieces would be awful.

She couldn't subject herself to that again.

Rosie might suspect, though. She smiles at them, more of a smirk, really, when she thinks they can't see her. Greg finds it amusing.

Molly finds it terrifying. She has witnessed the matchmaking frenzies her niece can create - she doesn't wish to be the subject of one.

Still, when they went to the theater, an old woman in the box cooed over the three of them.

"You've got such a nice family, sir," she mentioned, beaming softly. Lestrade lifted an eyebrow but didn't correct her, turning around with the tickets (he had insisted on buying for all of them, which was typical, actually - damn him and his  _consideracy_ ).

"Thank you," he replied instead, lips quirking up.

And then, at the parlor:

"Here's your tea, Molly," he said, dropping off a tall cup. It seemed odd, being out of the morgue and the labs and not being the one to  _get_ other people's beverages.

"Peppermint," she had noted, sipping carefully so as to not spill everything down her blouse. He had shrugged.

"It's your favorite, if memory serves."

"That it does. It's very nice of you - you didn't have to do that, you know."

"I wanted to." And that was that.

She could scarcely forget about a week ago either, when Greg made dinner for the three of them.

Actual food.

Not takeout.

This couldn't be reality, for she wasn't even certain the men in her life knew how to cook at all, let alone prepare entire meals without supervision. There was a reason Rosamund struck out on her own when it came to food. Anything Sherlock even attempted to produce could hardly be deemed edible, anyhow.

"I'm here," Molly had declared from the entrance, hastily removing her things. "Sorry I didn't get to see off your fathers, but traffic was hellacious, and - "

"Food's ready!" Lestrade called instead, and as she walked up to the kitchen she saw that he had a pot on the stove. It was filled with spaghetti, not entrails, for once, and it smelled like it was made for human consumption.

"Did you actually make something? For us?"

"It's boiled noodles and canned sauce, but if that makes it sound more impressive, yes," he remarked, smiling. "I heard Rosie chatting up the movie marathon tonight while Sherlock and John were away and she invited me to join. I figured you wouldn't want to fuss over cooking yourself, after your shift, so . . . "

"Thanks, really," she responded. And she meant it.

"Nothing special, but I have survived this long. It's no trouble, actually."

Still, he did things such as this for no reason other than he liked it. Greg Lestrade enjoyed looking out for the common man - this was what his entire life was devoted to, to making the world a better place in whatever ways he could, and his job and habits reflected those principals.

Rosie, no doubt, finds all of this adorable.

Molly tries to focus on the way John's smiles have gotten wider, the way Sherlock's scathing commentaries on the stupidity of mankind have become rarer. She tries to ignore the examining of Greg Lestrade.

They are happier, her friends, in the moments where people cannot see them. Blonde and black locks, far more effortlessly intertwined. It's precious, what they have, and though it is tentative it seems unbreakable. She's never been prouder to call them her family than when they reappear at 221B Baker Street, the best versions of themselves. An incredible uplift is present.

"You know how Dad and Daddy were acting like idiots for years and years?" Rosamund tells her at the return of her fathers from date fifteen, the most recent one. Molly nodded her affirmations. "I love you, Aunt Molly, but don't be like them. You're way too clever for that."

"Not nearly as clever as your parents, I'm sure," she said wryly. The blonde shook her head.

"It's a different kind of clever. Girls, I've found, are better at it," Rosie stated bluntly before departing, hugging her detectives fiercely. Molly was still ruminating on those words when Lestrade slipped over, grabbing his coat and slipping it on with reluctance. His eyebrows were scrunched, as if he, too, was thinking hard about things and trying to reach a revelation.

She sincerely hoped Rosamund hadn't consulted him, too.

"Molly?" Well then. He looked focused enough - clearly he had stopped thinking and had reached a decision.

"Yeah?"

"Would you like to go get coffee, sometime?" he asked, zipping up his jacket firmly and staring at her, waiting for a decision.

He wasn't flushed, was he?

"Not to be presumptuous, but . . . like a date?" The words came out more awkward, and far, far more hopeful than she intended.

"I mean . . ." He trailed off, not knowing what to say. "I mean, it doesn't have to be. Not if you don't want it to be."

"But, to be clear, you'd be alright with it? A date," the brunette added, slightly too quickly, and she silently cursed herself for doing this. Years without romance had obviously robbed her of proper social graces.

"I think I'd like that, yes," Greg states back, and now, for sure, she could make out streaks of red on his face. She wondered what it was about courting that made men so fidgety. Mind you, she probably wasn't much better, but still. "I'm asking you out on a date. This seemed like a much better idea in my head, I'll admit. I haven't done this in a while."

"You're not doing all that bad so far. You haven't fallen into a coma of fear yet, so fingers crossed."

"Yes, well, small blessings," he laughed, and it was at that point that Molly remembered the good officer needed an answer.

"I'd love to," she found herself saying, in a rush of unplanned thought.

"Great. Friday, then, after work?"

"Sounds good."

They parted, with Greg walking out the door to his own residence and Molly greeting the consulting detectives of 221B again. Sherlock makes a haughty remark about the cabbie and John chides him, and Rosamund and the brunette laugh at their childish ways. All the while, she thinks of friday.

She supposes she knows where she can put Lestrade on her family tree after all.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is convinced that this is a dream, or a bizarre, lengthy acid trip. He is not accustomed to things running smoothly, to relationships panning out. And that  _is_  what he finds himself in, to the surprise of most. An actual, functioning, healthy, adult relationship with a normal, loyal, handsome, intelligent man.

The detective is entirely certain that this cannot be. It contradicts everything he's known to be true about himself in relation to others; he recognizes that he is careless with word choice and very good at offending people, makes great messes all around his flat and would be swimming in filth had it not been for his roommate and Mrs. Hudson, is prone to the insatiable and the dramatic when it comes to annoyance, and has a very nasty habit of driving everyone in a thousand foot radius far, far away with his general disposition. Sherlock is not compatible with the world, nor its inhabitants, and this has simply been a fact of life before John and those who followed.

As time went along, he allowed for exceptions to be made, attachments to be had. Still, the romantic variety eluded him, mostly out of self inflicted choice, because love did not end well. As Mycroft was so fond of reminding him, caring was not an advantage. Sherlock had taken this to mean it was a luxury, and one he could ill afford.

John, as in all things, strained at the confines of these new rules. He invaded house and meals and work and even, eventually, the detective's bed, bringing a child along with him. It was Watson's fault, though, in the end. The doctor was just  _loveable_ , as juvenile as it sounded, with his silly and rather shapeless woolen jumpers and his oversized stuffy chair and his endless patience and understanding and selflessness. There was no way to describe him other than  _good_ , other than  _decent_  or  _honorable_ , no matter what. The simple act of texting a woman besides his wife had filled him with guilt, and even at his maddest, he never abandoned Sherlock or their cases.

John Watson, somehow, had evolved beyond being just John Watson. He was his partner, and more than that, his home, as stupid and unresolved as that notion seemed. And Rosamund, of course, was lumped right alongside her father, reserved a seat of honor.

Still, Sherlock has no idea why their little  _thing_ , their relationship made more than platonic, is going so bloody  _well_. It's improbable to the highest degree, and likely to be a hallucination, no matter how much he hopes it is true.

"I have no clue what I'm supposed to be doing," John said the instant they arrived at the thai place on their first date (yes, an actual date, Sherlock really wishes everyone would just  _get over it already_ ). "I haven't been out for so long, and I know you better than I've ever known anyone. I haven't the foggiest how to . . . I don't know, proceed? Going forward?"

"Are you implying that I understand how this is going to work, John?" he had replied, almost smirking, though with nervousness filtering through. It was maddening, not being able to predict the outcomes of conversations; he usually never had these problems with John. "Please. I'm not that good."

"Let's pretend, for a split second, you aren't. Fine by me; we both get that you're bloody brilliant, though," the doctor responded, taking a swig of water. Sherlock, as always, straightened under the praise as though preening. "You said you wanted whatever I did, more or less. I guess I've just got to lay it out now, then?"

"That would be best," he drawled, for once out of his element. Dating - such strange, treacherous waters. Why did he have to fall for anybody at all, let alone Watson?

"I don't know what you were thinking, but I am not the type to take things lightly in a relationship. I'm rather all or nothing, I'm afraid. A bit of a turn off for all the girls I used to go with," he said, pausing as if sorting through memories. "It rarely lasted wrong. I'm not going to lie, I'm rather new to this. Never really considered blokes. But I'm here, until the finish line, if you are." There was an unspoken question lying in the air, and ' _are you?_ ', the source of unease in their dynamic. Uncertainty on John's part that the genius had never even considered possible.

"Of course I am, idiot, what would make you think otherwise?" The relief across Watson's face was palpable.

"Alright, then. I guess I can stop being an awkward sod."

"Never. I've come to appreciate that quality."

"Is this seriously how it's going to be all the time, now?" Sherlock took a single sip of his beverage.

"I should hope so, John. For a very, very long while." This was how it started, he thinks. John's descent into a committed relationship once more was a startling, very ordinary conversation, and yet a lever had been pulled.

They left the restaurant, went on a walk for no reason at all, fed the ducks, and did several other activities of little to no great significance. It was a foreign concept, doing things because you felt the urge to and for no alternative reason, and yet it was invigorating, going metaphorically 'off book'.

Sherlock nearly brained a duck with a particularly stale cracker, though. John tried not to die of laughter. The animal in question appeared haughty, its beady eyes fixed on the consulting detectives in a manner resembling a glare of disdain.

When they finally arrived back at 221B, their hands were swinging together in an amiable, rather pleasant, fashion. He couldn't quite recall how they became intertwined, but it didn't much matter - John was happy, he was happy, for once, and that was the underlying takeaway.

Their future experiences didn't deviate much, and all of his extensive couple knowledge came from common media. They were not the worst of cliches or an overly affectionate grouping; Sherlock was still Sherlock, though more possessive and less disparaging over proximity, and John was still accustomed to professionalism on the job and had a fondness of keeping private life private, as per his military background. Still, there was the usual - winding embraces, knitted fingers, and yes,  _kisses_ , which were a very enjoyable regular occurrence after their third date.

"I'm going to kiss you now," Watson had declared suddenly, and Holmes had lifted an eyebrow but hadn't protested.

"Now?"

"Now."

"You know, you don't have to if you don't want - "

"What part of 'now' was so hard to understand?" And just like that, there had been lips on lips and a low, out of nowhere moan, accompanied by the fumbling of palms trying to find purchase. A most satisfying turn of events.

However, all in all, they were still just as close as ever, just in a different context than before. Its origins were tangled and its emergence was rudimentary at best, but they were growing something. Something strong, something solid, something utterly fantastic and never before seen.

Sherlock is almost entirely certain he is in love with his partner, which makes this whole thing so strange. He's been steadily falling for quite a long time, he believes. This is why, after a year of midnight violin practices, silly outings, exchanged snogs, cups of tea, and simply being together, he rolls over in their bed and pokes his significant other awake. He has something he's wanted to say for an achingly great period of time and it's been keeping him up.

"John?"

"Yes?" he says, combating a yawn fiercely. His limbs still droop, the sleep clinging to them, and his eyelids are struggling to remain peeled back.

"Do you remember Reichenbach?" Suddenly, the doctor is far more awake. His arms, despite their apparent heaviness, wind around the genius' back in a comforting way, drawing him nearer.

"How could I forget? I thought I'd lost you." The break in his voice had dulled over the years, reduced only to a clip hovering over the word 'lost', but it is still audible to those who knew where to look.

"As I was looking down at the street, knowing I might never see you again, even as you were talking to me, I wanted . . . " He fumbled, briefly, for the right phrases, a way to make John understand. "I realized I dreaded leaving. Not London, but you and Mrs. Hudson and everyone else. That you would kill me more than the fall." The blonde paused, taking that in, running his hand in little circles over Sherlock's side as he mulled things over.

"I think I died, slightly. I was never the same afterwards," John said finally, looking his partner dead in the eyes. "You're not the only one who fell apart, but at least you came back."

"You hated me when I did."

"I never hated you. I hated that you never let me know that you were alive, that you were alright. I had ripped myself to pieces over you and it was like you didn't care enough to . . ." He couldn't finish it. There was nothing else to say that Sherlock didn't already puzzle out for himself.

"You're wrong." John's frown spelled out his confusion. "I cared too much to go back. We'd both be complete messes if I had reappeared, out of nowhere, only to leave again. And trust me, John, I wouldn't have been able to leave again." He crinkled his nose, though the consulting detective could perceive the way his companion took every word to heart.

"You didn't realize it then, did you? At the fall. It was later." Sherlock smiles wryly.

"Your wedding, actually." John's eyelids are no longer drooping.

"What the bloody hell, Holmes? Why didn't you  _say_  something?!"

"You were  _happy_ , John," he said softly, shifting closer still. "I was not going to be the one to take that from you. It was the least I could do, after all we'd been through. You deserved happiness."

"That doesn't mean you have to be excluded from it, you know. You could have bullied your way back in."

"And wouldn't that have been just  _typical_ , you know. Sherlock Holmes, always in the middle of things." The sentences were laced in unintentional bitterness. John sighed and pulled his partner's head onto his shoulder.

"When, exactly?"

"I think I always said it, throughout everything," he continued, everything muffled through John's shift sleeve. "The toast, especially. Even in all the planning. But seeing you and Mary, after your vows, with Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson, all smiling and occupied . . . I had just signed you away forever. You were Mary's, not mine. And that was when I knew that whatever I was feeling was never going to go away." He laughed without humor. "Emotions are so bloody  _inconvenient_ , aren't they?"

"Sherlock . . . " John pulled back to look at him, searching his face for something unreadable. Sherlock, for once, was incapable of thinking anything. John had never subjected him to such scrutiny before, and certainly not this late - even full nights of sleep, something he had come to see the usefulness if not the enjoyment in, were rare, and he would often climb in and out of bed at three hour intervals. Actually staying in bed, being wrapped around his partner and slipping into unconsciousness long enough to become drowsy before reawakening, was new. The detective was not accustomed to so many irregularities at once. "You never said it out loud, you know."

Whatever he was expecting the doctor to eventually say, that certainly wasn't it.

The dark haired man blinked in response.

"Excuse me?"

"You never actually told me you loved me. It would have saved an awful lot of time."

"I wasn't a potential match, John. I was your flatmate, and somehow your friend, not some doxy you could hold hands with by the fireplace. It would have made everything go sour." John let out a puff of air softly, as if, for once, Sherlock was the idiot and him the overtly superior genius, surprised that the answer wasn't obvious.

"Sherlock, what you fail to grasp is that you were not a doxy that I went out with for a few weeks at a time. You were far, far more permanent.  _That_  would have kept everything from going sour or you from bottling yourself up, not silence." It was as if a lightbulb had gone off.

"So you're saying . . . "

"I don't know what I'm saying, actually. But I would have given it my best shot, if you were going to be with me through it," he admitted, gazing down at their intertwined hands beneath the sheets. "We're a good fit." Sherlock opened his mouth, preparing to speak or to possibly elaborate, but he paused, gathering that John might have more to voice. "I daresay I might have adored you from the start." Sherlock balks again, for it really is too early, for once, to be dealing with such heavy, if not welcome, revelations.

He's not accustomed to repeated boughts of shock. He imagines it's most unbecoming.

"You can say something, Sherlock. I think I've made my position in all this quite clear." Watson almost appears nervous again, in a way he hasn't been since the very start of their reconfiguration. The words, after that, roll out effortlessly.

"I love you, John." A simple, fleeting statement, but it makes a world of difference, and his partner looks at him as though he just offered up the moon.

"I love you too, you absolute nuisance. Now  _sleep_ , please, because we have work in the morning."

"How droll." John snorted, re-situating himself into something more comfortable, an arm lazily thrown across his companion's shoulders.

"You act like you don't enjoy your job. You  _live_  for it, you know."

"So do you. At least I don't relive it surreptitiously through blog posts, John." There was a moan muffled by the covers.

"The blog? Really?"

"Oh come on, you were asking for it. Rosamund could have avoided that pothole better."

" _Good night_ , Sherlock." In a genuine, brilliant smile, the detective responded.

"Night, John."

And, strangely enough, both men slept through the entire night.

* * *

Rosamund Watson is, really, the best of both worlds when it comes to her school life.

She's popular, which is to be expected. She's fair skinned, blonde, and very fit from her rugby years. She isn't the perfect specimen, no, but she's always acknowledged her good looks (or, to be more accurate, other people have always acknowledged them - 'you're so beautiful, didn't you know?') and though there are better looking individuals at her academy, Rosie oozed the self assurance that comes from being the adopted child of Sherlock Holmes. She's taken great lengths to carefully sidestep vanity or entitlement, of course, but a  _confidence_  and a hardy faith in her abilities have been thoughtfully nurtured.

Also, she seemed to have inherited the natural Watson down-to-earth attitude, as well as an air of amiability, in addition to her pretty features and sports talent. Rosie has always been excellent at reading people, at putting them at ease, and she's good at making friends. Though none were quite so close to her as Reyna, who was practically the other half of her brain at this point, Rosamund held a space in her heart for all of her many relations at school, and she was generally known as 'the popular girl' or 'the golden child' because of it. This was just in her nature. This was just who she was.

The second, slightly more surprising component of Rosamund's identity to any outsider, was her mental capacities. Rosamund was clever to a fault, and her deductions, when she did make them, were almost always spot on. She'd displayed a wonderful eye for details at a young age and, under the care of her guardians, had only expanded upon her capabilities. She was a whiz at chemistry, repeatedly producing perfect grades on all of her exams, and all of her teachers were blown away by her knowledge. Her projects were impeccable, her independent study undertakings even more so. Rosamund was simply brilliant, an absolute genius, with an IQ and a series of breathtaking scores to prove it.

These qualities served her well, making her the beloved of her school without much effort. Rosie couldn't give a flying fig about popularity, honestly - her loyalties lied with her friends and family, her interests in academics, and her heart in the detective work her parents performed. And, at age seventeen, she was eager to start taking up the Holmes-Watson mantle.

"Dad, can I join you on the next case?" she had asked, cornering her dark haired father on a rare occasion when he was alone. She chose a moment when John was out getting groceries, his phone nicked from his pocket by Rosie herself and laid in her room. Mrs. Hudson was wearing headphones and vacuuming a floor away. Lestrade and Molly were out, and the windows were securely fastened.

In other words, Rosamund had taken every possible precaution to ensure that Sherlock wouldn't have a distraction, and therefore an excuse to dodge the question.

Instead of attempting to dodge, though, he blinked.

"What did you ask? For clarification, of course."

"Dad, I want to help out on your next job. Like a real field agent. I know I can help. I know I could be useful." He stared at her, most likely scouring his mind palace and contemplating all possible outcomes of that proposal, before puckering his lips.

"Your father would have mixed feelings about this, you know. Rosamund, our work can get dangerous - John Watson hates when you get paper cuts or when I stub a toe. He wouldn't want you to get yourself into anything that could potentially get violent while you're still in school."

"Of course he doesn't. He's dad," she says coolly, crossing her arms. "And that's why I'm asking you. You won't coddle me - you'll give me a direct answer. Could I? Do you think I'd be ready?" Sherlock directs his gaze back across her form a second time, as if he is seeing her and yet not seeing her at all, or perhaps just looking through her entirely.

"Well, we shouldn't let you get bored at 221B by yourself. I can hardly blame you for wanting to see your parents at work," he responds, the false innocence dripping off of his sentences like honey, and she passes him a devious, lopsided smirk. He exchanges it with fervor.

So. Rosamund is finally following in her fathers' footsteps.

A bit of a nasty shock for one doctor when Sherlock and his daughter, who had just gotten off of rugby practice, had showed up together at a crime scene.

"Why is Rosie here and not at the flat?" he had asked, turning pale as a sheet.

"Because she wants to observe us in our natural element, so to speak. Don't most people do research on their future careers before applying?"

"She's not most people, she's a seventeen year old who's still in her sports uniform, Sherlock. When I said I was heading over to the scene and told you to hurry up, I didn't mean for you to bring Rosamund along."

"Honestly, John, she's not an invalid. She's  _ours_ , after all. And I gave her permission to come, actually."

"Without consulting me?"

"I knew you'd say no."

"Well, maybe bringing Ro to the place where a family was just brutally murdered several hours ago didn't have much appeal." Sherlock snorted loudly.

"Maybe me kissing you for the next week doesn't have much appeal." The blonde narrowed his eyes.

"You wouldn't."

"Why are you so sure, John?"

"It would be a punishment for you, too."

"True, but then again,  _you'd_  still have to deal with my sour attitude for the duration of the week. A vicious cycle, I'm afraid, but an annoyance doled out in two doses. Surprisingly effective." Predictably, her father caved. However, after a few minutes of adjustment to the sudden presence of his child in a crime scene, it was easy to see that John had already accepted this.

More than accepted this, he expected it to happen again. He was resigned to the antics of Sherlock, naturally, after being in constant contact with the difficult man for over twenty years. So, when Rosamund was pulled along to the next case, and the next one, he simply stopped casting inquisitive glances in his partner's direction. Instead, he merely made comments on school and rugby and dinner while investigating the scene and the astounding number of bodies. Seriously, with the amount of murders her parents got called in to solve, it was amazing that the morgues weren't overrun with dead people.

And, of course, now there was this case, her very own pet project.

Rosamund had never been more excited.

"Figure this out," Sherlock had voiced in his usual deadpan, dropping a thin file over her lap and picking up his violin. "Think of it as a test run, or a practice for the real world." Then he began fingering his instrument, weaving over the strings with his bow and drowning in the music, and she realized he was beyond her reach.

" . . . Alright then, I guess I'll just . . . " Rosamund had opened the slim parchment to find notes on a mystery.

A mystery she would get to solve, all on her own, without any assistance from her fathers.

To say she was ecstatic was an understatement.

Quickly, she skimmed over the details enclosed inside. The short of it was that a new play, a recently recovered Shakespeare script (more accurately, its foul papers, or the very first draft) that had never seen the light of day, was to be released in the fall by one historian Nathan Henderson. The play, performed by a hand selected cast of Henderson, was going to be viewed for the first time in a theater in a month or two, and the ticket sales were sure to be enormous. The majority of Shakespeare enthusiasts and researchers were raving about the find, and the original document was going to be printed in mass and then later sold itself. However, it seemed that some individuals had doubts to whether or not the manuscript was authentic or not.

This was where her fathers had apparently come in.

Thinking that this would be a good starter for her, Sherlock had asked the publisher Nathan was working with for a copy of the work in circulation before its release. Rosie assumed that he threatened the poor man by bringing up some old affair or a regrettable drug habit, but she certainly wasn't complaining about this line of methodology. A case was afoot.

Rosie frowned. She hadn't found the iconic plays of Shakespeare that interesting in school - many people liked them, and she was fine with that, but they had always seemed slightly stupid to her. People behaved in idiotic, unrealistic ways in many of his most famous works, such as Romeo & Juliet. No romance at all - just lust addled teenagers making horrible life choices on a whim. How  _facinating_.

However, there was one person she knew who was enamored with writing, clever, and would be more than happy to partner up with Rosamund on this endeavor.

Yes, she was talking about Reyna.

Though she wasn't an amazing scientist, her dark haired best friend was great at math and the arts, and she could certainly keep up in a chase - she had been on the track team for the last three years. Reyna, who had taken advanced english and conducted many in-depth studies on Shakespeare as a part of her curriculum, would be perfect for this task.

So Rosamund texted her instantly.

_Heyyyyyyy_

_Hey, Rosie! What's up?_

_How would you like to join me on a case?_

_You mean the detective work your dads do?_

_Yup, that stuff._

_Ooooooooh, sounds cool_

_Yeah, well, this part won't be so exciting, but I probably won't be much use on it._

_That's hard to believe . . ._

_It's Shakespeare, Reyna. SHAKESPEARE. Does that mean our school was right and analyzing those plays was supposed to have a real life application or something?_

_Mwahahaha_

_Reyna_

_No_

_You're supposed to be on my side!_

_And you said they were stupid_

_How's that working out for you now?_

_Poorly. But I don't need to care about the writing style of Shakespeare because I have my amazing best friend to help me look over the document._

_Ah, I'm the sidekick._

_Partner in crime, actually. Unless you WANT to be my sidekick . . ._

_Um, pass_

_We'll stick with 'partner in crime', Ro_

_You sure?_

_You could be the Robin to my Batman._

_You'd look great in tights._

_In your dreams, Rosamund. Like I'd be caught dead in tights._

_Let's not forget the rest of the ensemble._

_Hard no._

_I'm starting to regret becoming friends with you._

_Awwwwww . . ._

_You know you love me, though._

_. . ._

_Reyna?_

_. . ._

_Reyna_

_Come back_

_I need you_

_I needs you_

_Reynaaaaaaaaaaa_

_I'm sorrrryyyyyyy_

_. . ._

_Please come back_

_I'll buy you coffee and everything!_

_. . . It better be a large_

_With extra creamer_

_Like, slathered in creamer_

_Drowning in it_

_Yes!_

_I knew I'd win you over eventually!_

_Geez, Rosie_

_You act like there was even half a chance I'd say no._

_Real life detective work?_

_Please_

_We were born for this, Ro._

_Well then, are you free?_

_When?_

_Right now and for the rest of the night. Possibly overnight. And then overnight for the next night. It's a friday, so . . ._

_Oh my god, Rosie_

_I'm not overkill, okay?_

_Yes you are, you're ridiculous_

_Why am I laughing instead of being creeped out?_

_Because you're awesome_

_Duh_

_I'll see you in thirty minutes, just let me pack up a bag._

_Love you, Rey_

_Same, Ro_

In thirty five minutes - yes, Rosamund counted, it's not that weird - Reyna appeared out of the back of a cab, holding her laptop, a coat, and a bulky black duffel bag. Rosie bypassed the bag entirely, giving her friend a lopsided hug from the side and practically dragging her upstairs in a fit excitement.

"Bloody hell, Ro, slow down a bit," the brunette grumbled halfheartedly, shrugging her away with little force. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are, and frankly I'm so  _ready_  for this I'm about to die. Don't worry, you can bunk on the other side of my bed. My dads don't mind that I'm stealing you away for the duration of the weekend, as you'll probably make sure I eat proper meals and look away from the documents periodically." She took a deep breath, blue eyes flashing with something that could only be described as pure joy. "Oh, and thanks for dropping everything to help me with this. In case I forget to say it later." Reyna, with a dramatic sigh, smiled.

"Honestly, Rosamund, what are best friends for if not to aid in questionable legal affairs?" The look the blonde passed her was nothing short of blinding.

"I'll put on a new kettle. Drop off your bags and we'll get started, then." Reyna shot her a sarcastic salute.

"Aye aye, Captain."

"Consulting detective, actually," she corrected without turning around. She could hear her best friend's laughter the entire way up the stairs.

Now, at first one might think that the groundbreaking investigative work required in a case is a riveting, edge-of-your-seat endeavor. This was Rosamund's impression of her parent's daily work, and on the whole, she wasn't wrong. This line of inquiry she was so desperate to fall into was dangerous, imploring, and very, very complex. However, every occupation has its lags, and the initial scouring of documents was far from the intense chase scenes and murders she had witnessed so far.

Especially when it was written entirely in Shakespearean.

Perhaps  _because_  it was written entirely in Shakespearean.

"Reyna, I'm bored," she bemoaned, getting up off her bed. Currently lying next to her was the girl in question, who shoved her friend in response.

"I thought this was your first assignment, Rosie. I know for a fact you enjoy reading."

"It's Shakespeare. You can actually tolerate the language."

"You know, I never got your hatred towards it," she remarked, rolling over to face the blonde at her left. "What was it about the stories that you disliked so much? Was it the cliche part, or . . . Well, you're not one to blindly develop a grudge based on cliche, but still."

"Too . . . ornamental, I guess. It's all flowery and meaningless and I  _loathe_  stupid characters in books. Give me a clever girl who doesn't go into the ominous back room in a horror movie, or a disgruntled teenager that actually listens to their parents when they say 'don't do drugs' or 'don't have sex' or 'don't hang out with them'. When people make idiotic decisions for no reason it's annoying." Reyna shrugged.

"I guess that's true. But you can't argue that the structuring, the development, and the commentary on the political aspects of the time aren't fascinating. That's something that persevered in his works that few other playwrights in that era managed to capture."

"It can still be dull and petty."

"Very, but can't anything be dull and petty in the right circumstance?" Rosamund scowled, though it didn't reach her eyes.

"I hate you. Feel free to leave."

"You're far too much like your dad, hasn't anybody told you?" Rosamund allowed a smug expression to flit over her features momentarily.

"Constantly, at the police force. Uncle Greg smirks every time and Daddy gets this  _look_."

"A look that says what?"

"God help us all, of course." Reyna smacked her with a pillow, though she was smiling, too.

"And they're absolutely right. I'd be terrified, too." She returned to the document with a yawn. "Although we have been here for nearly five hours. I'm missing so many good programs on the telly for you."

"How dismal."

"Your vocabulary is worse than Shakespeare's in terms of ornamental, Rosamund." She snorted back, reluctantly laying back onto the bed and continuing with her reading.

"God, how dare you." Another ten minutes slipped by, and just as Rosie was about to suggest that they take a break for dinner, Reyna shot up, pumping her fists violently in the air. "What exactly are you doing?"

"Look, just look," she squealed, shoving the computer at Rosamund's lap with ferocity. Confused, the young Watson surveyed the page, coming to the bottom for a second time. Her eyes widened.

"Oh wow," she breathed, gazing at her laptop's document reverently. Reyna nodded quickly. "You bloody proved it, Rey."

"You're seeing it too, right?"

"The words 'red herring'? Why yes, I believe I am." But, just to be sure, she reread the exert:

_Betrayed! Knocked asunder! O woe of woes!_

_I hath not known the feeling but by love's hand,_

_Our bridled passions melt to those of hated foes,_

_As he hath lead me astray into this merry band._

_Deceit, a red herring, a fierce absence of mind,_

_O how have I remained so blind?_

"And since you know, Rose, that the term red herring wasn't conceived until 1805 - "

" - when a news story conveyed the tale of a boy who lead dogs away from a trail using salted herrings as bait, yeah - "

" - and Shakespeare died in 1616 - "

" - this couldn't have been an original manuscript," Rosamund completed, face brightening. "Do you know what this means?"

"That we've unveiled the lucrative schemes of a faulty historian hoping to make money off of a supposedly lost Shakespearean play?"

"That too, but more to the point - " Rosamund paused, taking a moment to jump off the bed once more and grab a suitably dramatic coat with several pockets. " - it means we have a faulty historian to  _apprehend_ , as the case may be."

In less than five minutes, both girls had gathered their essentials - phones, wallets, credentials, a set of lock picks, a revolver and a pocket knife, so yes, the run-of-the-mill necessities - and were trampling downstairs.

"Daddy, Dad, we're going out. Don't shag on the kitchen counter while I'm gone," Rosamund yelled, already halfway down the stairs. John made an imploring noise of confusion from the depths of the kitchen, though it was impossible to tell if this was the response to her absence or to the miraculous discovery of another one of Sherlock's mad experiments. They piled into the back of a cab and headed off towards Nathan Henderson's lodgings.

"How did you know where he lived? He didn't say where in London he resided," Reyna commented halfway through the trip, giving her best mate an inquisitive look.

"Before you arrived I took the liberty of searching the internet for information on Henderson. Well, on social media he has a picture of his dog in his house, lying on a pristine wooden floor with light streaming in." She pulled up the photo once more for reference. "Since he has a dog in the first place, that eliminates everywhere in London that doesn't allow pets. He's a bachelor, with little family from what I could find, and so a flat for one was the logical option. As already noted, the dog is on a wooden floor, but the breed - a malamute in a city, of all places - is notorious for shedding, as are most big dogs. However, the wood around the animal is absolutely spotless. More than spotless, it still has the varnish on, so it's brand new. Not many new flats come standard with such expensive wooden flooring, especially not those that also allow pets, and since Henderson was already an established historian with a hefty income, he lives in a posh development. Now we must consider the proximity to his work and only one area is available. That still leaves about twenty units on the same strip. However, the light streaming into the room was tinted, reflecting shades of blue and purple onto the floor, meaning he had a stained glass window. And, according to the street view available on my cell, only one flat matched that description." She relaxed once more, dropping her voice of authority and replacing it with an easy smile. "It's simple, once you think about things objectively."

"You're incredible. Absolutely incredible," Reyna said with uttermost sincerity in her voice. "I mean it, Rosamund. You're the most brilliant person I've ever met." The blonde scoffed.

"Oh, now you're being ridiculous. You've met my father, and he's  _Sherlock Holmes_." Reyna nodded in agreement.

"I have. And one day, you're going to be far better than even him." And really, if Rosie blushed in the back of the darkened cab while they rounded the corner, that was nobody's business.

They arrive at the stranger's flat after another fifteen minutes and thirty one seconds on the dot. Reyna wraps her knuckles on the door swiftly, and yet there was no response but the pitter patter of an approaching dog's lumbering footsteps, the pads clattering on the hardwood in succession.

Nobody else came to the front.

"I mean, we can wait until tomorrow, Ro," her comrade said, glaring at the entrance. "We have time. It's almost midnight, anyways. We should just . . . what are you doing?" Rosamund had leaned down, resting her weight on her knees, and inspecting the doorknob with scrutiny. She produced her beloved lock pick set - a Christmas gift from Sherlock and John last year - and began inserting the thin strips into the keyhole, twisting them around in her hands.

"I'm picking the lock, obviously."

"Again, we can wait until daylight hours, Rosie. There's no need."

"We don't have time for that. His giant malamute just got up off his bed and came to the door - you'd have to be the heaviest sleeper in the world not to realize the absence of a giant furry weight like that. Henderson knows someone is here, if he's lucid enough to think coherently. His manuscript releases soon, coupled by a strange occurrence in the middle of the night? He's going to be suspicious of two teenage girls coming to his house to accuse him of fraud in the morning. He'd never let us in." The blonde recited all of this without so much as a twist of her head, not bothering to turn around. Even as she talked, she continued fiddling with the metal. "It really  _is_  now or never, actually, unless we had attempted to wait until tomorrow afternoon in the first place. I guess the bright side is that we caught him severely off guard, but hindsight really is 20/20, isn't it?"

"Of course," Reyna intoned, shaking her head. "You enjoy these opportunities to show off, don't you?" Rosie snorted.

"Duh. Wasn't it obvious?" Reyna shoved her.

"Sod off, Ro." The lock clicked in a rather satisfying fashion and Rosie stood up, grinning triumphantly.

"Well, I suppose we're in." She swung open the door. "After you, good sir." Reyna batted her eyelashes and held a hand to her chest.

"Why thank you, madame." The dark haired teen managed a clumsy curtsy before walking unceremoniously inside. Rosie followed closely, shutting the door quietly behind them. "So, we should probably scope out the office first, right?" Rosie nodded.

"His work space would be the best place to start looking, yes," she said, glancing at the dog as if assessing a threat. The malamute, proving itself to be an absolutely useless guard, merely quirked its ears and sniffed Rosamund's hand with interest. Its tail wagged at the prospect of a new human in the house. "A bit of a pushover for a creature so big, I think." It flicked out its tongue against her outstretched fingers and extended its neck, having also come to the conclusion of a benign companion, and she caught a flash of its tag. "Bailey. Nice to meet you." Bailey panted in agreement.

"God, Ro, it's just like you to get distracted over a dog of all things after  _breaking into someone's house_ ," Reyna deadpanned, crossing her arms. "Aren't we supposed to be looking for something before a certain man stirs and comes out to investigate?" Rosamund frowned slightly.

"Yes, but technically this  _is_  working. I'm investigating the dangers this dog would pose to our research. I've come to the conclusion that Bailey is friendly."

"Bailey? You've already gotten attached," she sighed, shaking her head. "Ro, let's go. We didn't come here for the dog."

"I know, I know, I just haven't really been around another one since Gladstone . . . " the blonde trailed off, and Reyna grimaced. For a short while, on her twelfth birthday, Rosamund had received a rescue named Gladstone. He was a pudgy bulldog, around one or two, but he was a sweet and rather lovable pet.

Then, Gladstone had to leave 221B when he displayed a habit for getting himself in trouble. After breaking a leg because of a nasty fall down the stairs (he kept struggling to get his tiny legs up over the edge), accidentally consuming a vat of diluted rat poison ("It was just an experiment, I didn't think that the stupid creature would  _eat it_ , John!"), and vomiting up a can of expired dog food (they hadn't been able to go shopping for a while, alright?), it was evident that life at their flat was too dangerous for such a small, bumbling creature, and Grandma and Grandpa Holmes had ended up taking in the portly hound. Sure, Gladstone was still alive, healthy, and very, very fat, as her grandmother took great pleasure in stuffing him with biscuits, but when Rosamund got attached to something, she simply couldn't give it up. She was absolutely devastated by their separation, and Reyna and John and Molly had been by her side almost constantly after his absence.

Sherlock tried to help as well, of course, but comforting was never his strong suit. He had no idea what to do with a crying person.

"Sorry," Reyna supplied awkwardly to this. "I mean . . ."

"No, no, it's fine. I'm being ridiculous," she sighed in agreement, giving the pooch one last pat on the head before getting up. The reluctance was evident on her face, however, and the runner reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

"Okay?"

"Okay. Let's find this man's files and leave." Ignoring the fact that this was highly questionable and they were probably going to get busted any second now, Reyna walked quietly across the floorboards, trying not to leave a sound. Rosamund wasn't nearly so careful, as she continued strutting around the house like she had been there a million times before.

Well. Rosamund Watson did have a flair towards the dramatic, even when there was nobody around to notice.

In seconds they had located the office, and inside that office laid a desk. Reyna opened several drawers before producing a stack of papers.

"I think this is it, Ro." Rosamund ignored her. "Ro? You can stop looking now. I've found it - very shoddily hidden, actually." She snorted.

"It's supposedly - though we know the contrary - an original Shakespeare. Somebody went through the trouble of introducing iambic pentameter in between prose, forging the writing style, and attempting to copy what little the modern day has recovered of his calligraphy in order to sell a 'lost, unpublished set of foul papers'. They had to keep the original frauds somewhere more secure, though the quill and ink Henderson used may still be in this room. We might need them for further proof later." Reyna frowned, stuffing the papers down her jacket anyhow.

"Decoys. Got it." Rosie froze. "What, what's wrong?"

"Right. Here's my pocket knife. I hope you don't have to use it."

"Rosie, what the heck are you - "

"What's going on here?" came a voice, and in doorway was Henderson, in the flesh. He was taller than Rosamund had imagined, and thicker around the middle, with glasses and thinning hair. In his arms was a gun, held sturdily by an experienced hand, though it looked odd coupled next to the man's bedhead and pajamas.

Rosie didn't panic. She had seen many a gun in her life, and though this threat was clearly valid, it had ceased to scare her past the age of ten. Besides, they had the advantages of numbers, nimbleness, if his middle was anything to go by, and her hidden revolver.

"What's going on with your research is the more pressing question, actually. Your false forgeries were good, really, but photocopies shoved lazily into a desk don't make for a very good red herring." Rosamund took a half step further and tried not to look like she was enjoying her first confrontation on the job. "But then again, I'm sure you know all about red herrings."

"You shouldn't be here," he said simply, though his pupils were widened and his grip on his weapon tightened. Clearly, he was shocked that anybody had figured out his secret, let alone tried to confirm the theory. "I could have you arrested for breaking and entering."

"I have the ability to deny that claim. I mean, as I recall it, me and my friend went for a taxi ride and we got a little lost. We knocked on your door and found it unlocked, so the worst we'd receive is a small fine for snooping. However, on the off chance they'd care to punish us fully, I've got connections in the police department and the British government. We could escape retribution altogether and come back later, repeating the process, or we can settle this now."

"You don't know anything. You're bluffing."

"Am I? Because  _you're_  certainly not sweating or anything. And the documents my friend procured are definitely up to snuff with your so-called originals. Tell me, you  _do_  keep them in your house, right? Along with the forging materials, too. It's alright, you can be honest, you still have quill and ink used to create the  _totally_  authentic foul papers that would be worth a fortune, given nobody actually has a surviving copy of real ones until you claimed to. They're with the papers, I presume?"

"Shut up. Stop talking, little girl, or I'm going to fire." Rosamund's eyebrows arched.

"And risk getting caught in the headlines for the murder of a teenage girl? You'd be making a lot of enemies, my friend. And if I were you, I certainly wouldn't want a further investigation of your house. And especially not your bedroom, I take it." The girls watched as the historian began to sputter. "Ah, so I was right. I thought you would keep them in your office, but they  _are_  in your house, huh? Not so smart. Why didn't you arrange a separate location?"

"I can . . . I'll . . ."

"Do what, exactly?" Reyna interrupted, speaking up for the first time. She took great care to appear completely calm, though Rosie knew the sight of a loaded gun aimed in her direction was probably throwing her off guard. "Hold us hostage until the release? You have nowhere to hold us in this flat, and it's not as if the police can't track our phones. Kidnapping doesn't look too good on a permanent record." Henderson, with a sly smile, drew up to his full height.

"I can always say that two girls arrived in my house in the middle of the night. It was dark, and they attacked me when I was in bed, hoping to steal my manuscript for themselves. Luckily, I disposed of them during the attack and was able to escape. Self defense, extraordinary circumstances." Rosie's eyes narrowed as he lunged, a bullet flying loose. Reyna narrowly dove behind the desk before throwing the closest object within reach, which was a bulky lamp, in his direction. He yelped at the offending light fixture hit him squarely on the jaw.

If they had been in any other circumstance, Rosie would have laughed.

She certainly wasn't laughing now, though.

Unfortunately, Henderson kept his fingers securely around his weapon, and while behind the desk, Reyna was hardly in a position to defend herself. She threw a heavy book sitting on the oaken surface at him, and he groaned yet again, but still jumped on the top and cornered her between his wall and a swivel chair. She lifted Rosie's pocket knife towards her aggressor, hoping to get in a lucky stab, but in seconds he was grabbing her wrist, hoping to secure the sharp blade.

Reyna, though fit for her age, could hardly compete against a fully grown and far heavier adult. She was clearly loosing her once ironclad grip on the tiny pocketknife, but she squirmed and struggled and kicked to the best of her ability, blindly reaching for anything of use on the floor.

Rosamund honestly had no idea what to do. She was a great aim, but Henderson still had a gun without the safety on. A surprise bullet to the the leg might prompt an itchy trigger finger of his own, and that would almost certainly hit Reyna. And that was assuming he wouldn't move last minute - the way he and her best friend were struggling on the floor was chaotic, unpredictable, and if Reyna rolled over she could easily get caught in the crossfire.

No, in such close quarters her trusty revolver would do her little good, after all. She had to resort to something else.

Just then, remembering her house keys in her pocket, the blonde pulled out the jagged strips of metal and jabbed them harshly into the historian's side. He groaned, quickly whipping his head around. This gave the runner the distraction she needed to close her hands around something on the floor - a stapler, as the case was. She unhooked the top from the bottom and fired the office supply directly into his forehead. As he howled, she fiercely kicked his kneecap and rolled out from underneath him. Rosamund snatched away the gun -  _finally_  - and brought her revolver down onto the back of their attacker's head with vigor.

Nathan Henderson, the mountain of a man that he was, crumpled like a rag doll under the sudden blow. Rosamund wiped her hands on the side of her shirt and took a silent inventory of Reyna's condition. She considered her friend's new ring of bruises around one wrist, the disheveled state of her hair, the skewed collar and the rip on her jumper.

"Are you alright?" she asked, genuinely concerned. It looked for all the world like Reyna had just been mauled by a bear.

"Oh, I'm completely freaking out," the dark haired teenager said, eyes wide. Rosie winced.

"Yes, right, I shouldn't have - "

"But I've got to say, this was just about the best night of my life, Rosamund." Reyna broke out into a smile, and then a fit of giggles soon after. Her sudden humor was contagious, and in seconds the blonde was laughing as well.

"Bloody hell, did you seriously shove a  _staple_  into his face?" Rosie sputtered, pulling a hand to her mouth.

"Well, did  _you_  seriously just knock him out cold? That was pretty damn brilliant, Rosie. Like, the most badass thing I've ever seen anybody do."

"Oh, that's nothing. My Daddy once flipped off Uncle Mycroft in full view of his staff and Dad. Without being assassinated later." The thought of John Watson, or anyone, really, doing something remotely vulgar towards  _Mycroft Holmes_  of all people (Reyna had only encountered him a handful of times while knowing Rosie but those brief occasions were enough to inform her that  _nobody_  messed with Mycroft unless they aspired to be dead in an hour) was hysterical and frankly unreal, and Reyna erupted into another peel of lunacy.

"Okay, that's pretty amazing."

"Elementary, even," Rosie said, trying to calm herself down. The victorious smile still remained. "Hey, you call Uncle Lestrade, I'm going to tie him up." With a nod and a brief hug, they split.

The next thirty minutes until the police actually showed up were a blur. They both pretended that tying a man up in his own bedsheets and locating and cracking a private safe ("It's super easy if you set your mind to it, Rey." "No it's not, how did you  _do_ that?") filled with fake Shakespeare manuscripts was totally normal. When the authorities arrived with Greg Lestrade at the helm and two consulting detectives in tow, they saw two teenage girls sitting on Nathan Henderson's sofa. Rosamund was absentmindedly stroking Bailey, who was surprisingly unalarmed by the odd series of events, and together they were engaging in a game of chess, Henderson's body curled up in bondage in the middle of the room.

"Checkmate, Rey."

"I told you I'm bloody awful at this. It took you less than fifteen minutes."

"No, you're fine, I've just been playing since age six."

"Why would a six year old want to learn chess? I mean, other than the fact that you're you."

"One of a kind, no?"

"More like three, if your family is to be believed. Tell me, did they - "

"You're both okay, right girls?" Greg asked, worry leaking into his tone. "You said you undermined a vicious plot to produce forgeries of plays?"

"Oh, hi Mr. Lestrade," Reyna said, looking up from the board. "Yes, we're alright. I've got a few bruises that we've taken pictures of - "

" - evidence of the attack so we can add assault on the list of crimes," Rosie interjected helpfully.

" - yes, that, and you'll find the fingerprints match his. Here are the documents, complete with phrases invented long after Shakespeare's death, and the tools used to make them for posterity. As you can see, clearly his attempt to discover 'lost foul papers' went a little foul itself." Rosie shot her a tired grin.

"You'd think that after all that trouble he'd ditch the quill and ink he utilized. Perhaps he wanted the option to 'discover' more iconic drafts later down the road. A lucrative scheme, if the first selling went well." With that, Rosamund got up, extending a hand to her best friend. "Come up, Rey, we've got to go talk to my parents now." As Lestrade knew he wouldn't get any more out of either girl tonight - God knew Rosie never did anything she didn't want to - he and his team took over, securing the unconscious body of the historian and carting him into the back of a cruiser. Surely there was more than enough evidence to mark him down as guilty, anyhow.

John, on the other hand, was rather furious.

"Rosamund, what the bloody  _hell_  were you thinking?" he fumed, cheeks pinched in anger and worry. As usual, he was exceptionally easy to read, and his distress was alarmingly apparent. "We got a call at around midnight, after you leave the flat at night in a hurry for no reason without saying when you'll be back, telling us that our  _daughter_  had apprehended a criminal. You took your  _revolver_ , Rosie. You expected you'd need a  _revolver_." She grimaced, preparing to defend herself, when Sherlock snorted. John turned his anger onto his partner instead. "Well? Is there something  _you_  would like to add?"

"You're overreacting, Watson."

"Overreacting?  _Your_  child - "

"Oh, Rosamund's  _my_ child now. How odd," he muttered dryly.

" - took on a fully grown man with an enormous gun by herself without informing us where she was going. She could have died. How does that  _not_  bother you, Sherlock?" he demanded, crossing his arms.

"She wasn't alone, John. She had a partner with her." Reyna coughed and awkwardly waved, reminding the men that she was still there.

"Please, I love Reyna, but she's a teenager. Just like our teenage daughter who should at least  _tell us_  when she is going to jump a criminal."

"Henderson was hardly a criminal mastermind, John, and Rosamund sees us do this every single day. Have a little faith; she's more capable than we'd like to admit. What do you think she'll be doing for a living when she's a fully functioning adult?"

"I do have faith in Rosie, and this isn't some sort of separation anxiety or anything. I'm not a child, but surely you've got to understand that - " The great Sherlock Holmes groaned loudly.

"For the love of - " He grabbed the neck of John Watson's sweater and kissed him.

Avidly.

In the view of absolutely everyone.

Rosamund didn't know whether to feel embarrassed, slightly disgusted, or deliriously happy for them.

John remained silent for a good thirty seconds after they pulled apart, blinking rapidly. Holmes, as always, appeared unphased by this or by anything.

"So, as we were about to say, good job. We're very proud of the efforts of you and Reyna." He raised an eyebrow and let a rare, impossibly small smile slip out. "Well done, Rosie." She beamed like the sun. Legitimate praise from any Holmes was hard to come by, and Sherlock especially didn't give compliments lightly. "Let's leave Lestrade's men to patch things up here. Hopefully they won't bungle this too badly come morning." Greg, a mere ten feet away, rolled his eyes yet didn't comment.

"I'm sorry, but did you just kiss me?" the doctor asked, running a hand through his hair.

"Of course. Rather effective in keeping you quiet, I must admit."

"You just kissed me. In front of everyone."

"Yes, John, we happen to be in a committed relationship that is in no way under wraps. Is there a reason this is so boggling to you right now?" he responded, sounding for all the world like a petulant child.

"No, but in front of  _Lestrade_  and  _Sally_  and  _Anderson_. You hate Anderson with every fiber of your being."

"For heaven's sake, John, you can be so incredibly  _dense_  at times." He kissed him again - just for good measure - and the doctor once again lost his train of thought. With a nod towards her uncle, Sherlock Holmes ushered the two girls and his partner out of the flat. Confused, Bailey began padding after them.

"You know, after we arrest this guy, the dog won't have a place to go. No relatives and such," Lestrade called out as they left. "It seems rather attached to you, if you get my drift." Rosamund positively lit up, and as she turned to open her mouth, her father cut her off.

"We'll see, in the morning, long after John has recovered from his perpetual stupor and Reyna has something on her rather horrific bruises." They all piled into the back of a cab together, and Rosie reached out and squeezed Reyna's hand. The runner squeezed back tightly, and they held hands in the dimly lit vehicle while looking out the window. London at night, lit up like lanterns, was stunning; it glittered like gemstones, and you could see bridges and buildings and sidewalks and streetlamps and  _everything_  for miles, glowing and wreathed in magic. Frankly, the view was one of the best parts of this gig, other than the satisfaction and empowerment that came from sending the guilty to jail and unraveling crimes. This was an addictive lifestyle, and one that she had dragged her friend into thoughtlessly.

Reyna adored it just as much as she did, though. A perplexing notion, having friends like that, but Rosamund couldn't really be anything but on top of the world at the moment. Analyzation of her incredibly dangerous, weird existence would just have to wait.

Her fathers kept bickering in the cab over "no, we're not getting a dog" and "why are we not talking about  _that kiss_ " and "how are you acting so calm right now" until Sherlock effectively ended the conversation.

"We'll collect the stupid dog in the morning, since Rosamund is obviously infatuated, I'm reasonable because somebody has to be and for once it isn't you, and damn it all, John, you better get used to kissing in public because when we get married  _what do you think is going to happen?_ " The blonde blinked.

"Married?"

"Obviously, one day. It's the inevitable conclusion to a long term, serious relationship." For once, though she couldn't quite tell, Rosie swore her Dad was blushing, or at the very least flustered.

"Was that a proposal, Sherlock? In the back of a dark cab, while I'm absolutely livid and worried out of my mind, sans ring?" The detective looked as though he had no idea what to say.

"Not very glamorous, or intended, but I suppose so."

"Good, then," the man stated eventually, briefly brushing a thumb over his partner's knuckles. "Only took you seventeen years to get around to it, I guess." Sherlock sputtered, practically choking on air in a way Rosie had never witnessed before - he was  _Sherlock Holmes_ , and therefore above such trifles - but here he was, rendered speechless.

It was fascinating, actually.

At this point, as they approached Baker Street once again, Reyna leaned over and whispered in her ear.

"Partners, Ro?"

The teenager couldn't possibly know what she was offering to do. Reyna hadn't lived in a household that studied dead organ tissue for fun or chased down muggers as a hobby. She hadn't experienced a murder scene or uncovered ancient chinese dialects or decoded a thousand number cipher. She had normal parents, universities lined up, a healthy career ahead of her without all of this. Reyna had a shot at regularity, minus staples in the forehead and revolvers to the skull.

And yet, Rosamund could tell, Reyna  _understood_  her. Better than anybody else she'd ever find. And Rosie  _wanted_  her by her side, ever so badly.

She needed her best friend.

"Partners, of course," she whispered back, and Reyna smiled, slowly and languidly, as they drove onwards.

"Elementary," she told the blonde, not letting her grip on the young detective's hand waver for even a second.

"Quite."

They really  _were_  elementary, weren't they?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thus marks the end of the third chapter.
> 
> . . . So who's excited for the epilogue?
> 
> I guess I should have called this a four part story - I always intended to add an epilogue to tie everything up nicely and give you all a glimpse of the future, and it's going to be the length of another installment, broken into two parts because it's insanely long. I think I already mentioned that before, but here it is again. I hope what I've gotten through so far was satisfactory, though.
> 
> Thank you for reading this and for the reviews, bookmarks, and kudos this story has gotten since it's been uploaded here; I really appreciate it! See you in a week!


	4. Epilogue Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the end notes are enormous, I'll try to take up as little of your time as is humanly possible.   
> This is the first half of the ending, set with Molly and Sherlock's experiences. If you bother to read the forewords, know that it's been a pleasure getting to repost this story and seeing the response. Though small, the audience for this story is great. Thanks for enjoying, and please have fun in the next section.   
> You all have made the incoming to AO3 a smooth one, and for that I cannot express my gratitude.

Molly's not entirely sure how she ended up where she is now. Only a few years ago, she was still single. She was doing the same job as she had the last two decades of her life. She was 'babysitting' Rosamund whenever she was required.

This was simply how it was. It was a pretty nice, orderly existence, and she adored the people around her.

But boy, Molly Hooper has to admit that her life had changed for the better.

After exactly twenty six months of dating (and good dating, too, even if her date was often called out to work and she ended up accompanying him back to many a grisly crime scene), she had been proposed to. At first, she had scarcely believed it was real, but several a pinch to the arm confirmed the proposal to be reality.

Now, she wasn't a stranger to proposals. She had already been proposed to once before, and seen many a friend get engaged, but this was different. Obviously, she still wasn't married for a reason. Molly had fallen to pieces emotionally after her fiance ("That bastard," Lestrade had called him, and everyone seemed to agree with that assessment) broke it off, and she had been certain it was a sign that she wasn't meant to find love. But Greg was not some random man she had started up a flame for and had a few outings with - he was an incredibly dedicated, loyal man who had staked his career with the police on the fine, if not scarce, ideals of 'doing the right thing', though it often got in the way. And, more than that, he was her friend before anything else, and had been a close friend since Rosie was little. He would never lie or trick anyone, and certainly not Molly.

This was why, when he proposed, she didn't question it. She didn't think he was anything less than serious as he asked. She didn't hound him with doubts or make sure he was certain about this.

After realizing that she wasn't dreaming, Molly said yes without so much as a second thought.

It had been multiple decades, exactly twenty six months of dating, and another five for wedding planning, but in her time knowing Greg, she was finally married.

All the brunette could feel was  _relieved_ and overwhelmingly light, as though a great weight had been lifted from her unfortunately lonely chest. Job and murders and ill fated matchmaking aside, she was  _happy_  all over for the first time since nearly forever. It was a wondrous sensation that she forgot she could have.

They were living together in her flat, now, as they had been for almost the last year. It had simply made sense for Greg to move in with her; her flat was the biggest of the two, in relatively close proximity to his work, very clean and tidy, and only a five minute ride from 221B given good traffic. There wasn't a need to search for available listings or start looking into new buildings; what they had, much like their relationship, worked. That was all there was to it.

And, naturally, there was her position at the morgue.

After  _twenty four years_ of working there, she had finally gotten a substantial raise.

Seriously. She'd more than earned it.

There hadn't ever been much leeway in her job - it was one of the few drawbacks to the position. She examined dead bodies for a living, so it wasn't as if the profession was in high demand or anything, but where would you move up? Much of the work was individual, and you were held accountable for your own lab findings. Improvement in status just wasn't common or easy to achieve, regardless of your devotion to the craft.

Until, of course, her supervisor decided to retire and referred her for the new slot. It came with more off time, an increase in freedom, and a nice bonus. Molly hadn't ever been more excited to come to the morgue and take notes on corpses.

Lastly, there was John and Sherlock's wedding, in which Molly and Lestrade were the best women and men, respectively.

Things had certainly changed.

Today, four months after her own marriage, two of her closest and dearest friends were finally getting hitched. Even more so than her own special day, it seemed surreal. Hadn't it only been yesterday that they had met, that John and Sherlock had became a team in 221B?

Apparently not, as now they were tying the knot, and right before Rosie turned eighteen, no less. Certainly took them long enough.

Molly and Lestrade actually had rather heavy hands in terms of say in the wedding planning, and now, looking at all of it, she had to say that everything was beautiful. They had booked a garden area in London, seemingly at random, as it had no real significance to either that Molly could determine. A small wrought iron pergola stood in the center, old and slightly creaking, but Sherlock thought it was 'interesting' ("I wouldn't be surprised if it caved in and killed someone. It's incredibly unstable and probably approaching fifty years old, given the rust around its joints and the style of the designated overlaps." "Sherlock, that's awful. We should go somewhere else, then." "Are you joking, John? It's by far the most intriguing spot we've scouted out so far, and with any luck it'll fall and decapitate Mycroft for good." "Wait, we're seriously considering booking the terrifyingly unsafe pergola?" "A murder would do everyone some good, I think.") and that was the most they could hope to get out of him. The Holmes had approached wedding plans with the attitude of someone who wanted to get them over with, with Mary's big day and his own, and so she and John had been tackling most of the details that had required a more thoughtful touch.

There were only a grand total of fifteen people at the ceremony, positioned on wooden benches beneath the rickety pergola. Mycroft, the one exception to this rule and number sixteen, stood up, refusing to sit, and remained off to the side, watching the proceedings with a casual fondness. In the left wing, there was Mr. and Mrs. Watson, Rosamund and Reyna, as they were inseperable, Mike, Sarah, Harriet and Clara (they had, miraculously, been available at the last possible moment and had flown in just for the wedding - Harry even seemed to be sober this time, and Molly didn't doubt for a second that this had to do with Clara coming back into her life), and another two friends from the hospital. The right side, containing the smaller Holmes party, lied Ms. Hudson, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Billy Wiggins, and then, of course, Greg and Molly Lestrade themselves. A sparse population, save the officiator, but it worked. Only those who were immensely important were present, just the way the two men would have wanted (Rosamund herself had wanted another guest, Bailey the malamute, but John had firmly turned her down - the dog would have been an absolute nuisance in a cab). The only music came from classical violin recordings, many of those directly from Sherlock's endeavors in their own flat, and as the garden was already filled with flowers - it was a  _garden_ , after all - there were barely any arrangements, and where they were present, the buds were white and simple.

It was hardly extravagant - if Sherlock had his way, this would have been an open-and-shut affair, where the men went down to the courthouse, signed off together, and got takeout on the route home. He wasn't one for frivolities for frivolities' sake, though the consulting detective could appreciate many of the finer things in life. Anyhow, this was much more laid back, and after a quick brunch in the garden ("Do we have to, John? It's our wedding, we should be able to go when we want to." "Too bad. It's a social event, Sherlock, and we have to stay and eat and socialize like normal people." "Again,  _our_  social event. Emphasis on  _ours_. Something as insipid as brunch has little appeal." "Well I think it sounds nice and  _relaxing_ , for a change. You'll just have to tough it out for two hours." "Why are we getting married again, Watson?" "Hush up, you're the one who proposed.") the entire event would be concluded.

She can't recall most of the fine details (she was tearing up dreadfully, alright?), but she had watched patiently as the service began.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," rambled the officiator, stopping often to push up his spectacles. Sherlock, wearing the same outfit as he did every day - a three piece suit, sans tie because he despised being choked - clearly wasn't paying attention to the man speaking. He was looking at John, observing thoughtfully as though to make sure he was still certain about this. He wanted to know John wasn't having doubts.

Joke was on him, really. John Watson was nothing if not devoted.

Molly had to admit that she, too, began to tune out the officiator. He wasn't boring, per say, but he talked in a leisurely, raspy manner, and if she didn't stop paying attention she would have surely fallen over the back of the bench, completely asleep. Her husband gripped her hand, squeezing. It was a small comfort, knowing she wasn't the only one who felt like they might drop any second.

Sherlock's voice, though, jolted her out of her trance. It was a stark, sudden contrast to the speaker before, and the experience was far more jarring than one would expect.

"John, I think I'm supposed to say something about how great of a person you are and how proud I am to have you at my side, but I won't." Molly glanced down the benches, observing the other guests. All of them looked completely confused.

Sherlock and John hadn't wanted anyone to help them with their vows - frankly, it was the one aspect of this entire wedding they planned alone - and now she was seriously terrified of whatever might have been written. John's were probably alright, but Sherlock had no sense of propriety, and the brunette just realized  _maybe_ she should have forced him to show her the script. In case it needed editing.

"I'm not going to say any of that because everyone already knows those things. And honestly, John, if I didn't see anything in you we wouldn't have been friends in the first place, let alone been here today." Alright, that was better. "In sickness and in health, death do we part - we've lived that already. There's no point in restating it, though we will in just a moment. I  _did_  die, actually, and we're still together. If we can make it through that, I doubt the rigors of marriage are going to stop us." Sherlock smiled, faintly, and John laughed. "So, instead of talking about how great you are, I'm going to talk about how great you've made me. I would be dead about a thousand times over if you hadn't been there alongside me. I wouldn't have had nearly as much success, and I certainly would have relapsed. Unfortunate, but no doubt true - you were the anchor that grounded me, that told me to pick up my messes, that forced tea and sandwiches down my throat, that made sure I actually slept occasionally. I would never have been anything  _more_  than myself. It's easy to be described as a great mind, but a good man is far rarer. I still don't know if I am there yet, but for you, John, I am trying to be one. For you are, undoubtedly, the best man I've ever met, and I'm never going to leave you alone. Never again." Molly would wager good money that the doctor was ready to kiss him, right there. Mrs. Holmes cooed, tears in her eyes, and Sherlock, upon seeing her bat at her face, rolled his eyes with incredible fondness before turning back to John. "Your turn, I'm afraid."

"How am I supposed to top that, Sherlock?" he said, trying not to grin uncontrollably. "You realize anything I say now is going to sound weak in comparison."

"Of course. Wasn't that the idea?" the man replied, smirking. "We're waiting, Watson." The blonde took a deep breath.

"Right. Well, I guess most couples date, get married, have children, and then live out their days under the same roof as a unified front. I'm afraid I didn't get the memo; when it came to me and Sherlock, everything was always a little bit off book," he started sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "There wasn't anything about becoming a unified front, bypassing everything else, getting over the death  _and_  resurrection of your partner, marrying somebody new, widowing, raising a child together, and  _then_  dating and becoming remarried. We're all over the map. I am an absolute mess of a human being. When I first met Sherlock, I had no idea why I was even still alive. PTSD, bullet wounds, no real connections and a very vague concept of where I would be staying - that was me, when I walked in. I needed a fresh start, but I didn't have anything to believe in. And yet, you, Sherlock, took one look at me and knew everything there was to know. You were absolutely brilliant. You have no clue what you did by just giving me a purpose, by allowing me to be your best friend. You gave me back my life, and from that day onwards, my world started to center on yours. Thank you for being here, for not giving up on my ordinary self through everything - through every argument, every injury, every struggle in raising Rosie. Thanks for choosing me." Molly didn't quite know how, but she had started to clap. A glance over at the other guests confirmed that they were doing the same, though, so she didn't feel too out of place.

Sherlock was absolutely frozen.

"You can say something, now, you git," John reminded, nudging the detective slightly. "Bloody hell, it wasn't  _that_  terrible."

"You were completely wrong, John," he muttered after a second, blinking.

"About what? The speech being worse?"

"That too, but about us. I'm the lucky one. You chose me." The officiator took that as que to start speaking again.

"Do you, Sherlock Holmes, take John Watson as your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, til death do you part?"

"I do. Wasn't that abundantly evident?" His nose crinkled up, as if the very notion of the contrary was perplexing, and Molly wondered for the first time if Holmes wasn't nervous.

"And do you, John Watson, take Sherlock Holmes as your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, til death do you part?"

"I do, for some reason. Haven't quite figured it out yet." He was smiling brightly.

"Then I now pronounce you married. You may kiss." The officiator, with gray hair fading to white, nodded in approval. The lapels of John's suit were gripped as his partner pulled him in, putting lips on lips before John truly registered anything. It was sweet, actually, and the brunette nearly looked away. This was their moment, after all, and she almost felt as though she was intruding.

Actually, she started to squirm when it continued a few seconds past socially acceptable. Rather uncomfortable to view. However, they looked  _happy_ , and that was more important than her mild self consciousness.

"So, let's all get brunch over with, shall we?" stated Sherlock, absolutely unphased, as he drew back. "I imagine most of you are hungry, as is John, who might be in need of a drink. He looks a little pale." He began to stride off, John quickly following out of instinct, and the other guests got up.

It figured, really. He was  _Sherlock Holmes_ , and he did as he wanted when he wanted to.

John Watson (Watson-Holmes, now, but who cared?) grabbed his husband's hand, groaning, "I can't believe you did that."

"What? You  _could_  use a pint, John, to get the color back into your face."

"Harriet's always going to think you're a conniving arse, now. In the best possible way, of course, but she'll be waiting for you to humiliate me further today."

"You forget that I  _am_  a conniving arse, John. And a sociopath, a consulting detective, and I've been called a prick on numerous occasions. Obviously, though, I have my charms, or you wouldn't be here with me."

"Just a heads up."

"I think you're the one who needs to be worried. Never underestimate the potential for siblings to rag on eachother." Their fingers intertwined, anyhow, and they walked off to their table together.

Molly assumed they'd be more than fine.

There weren't extra tables for people to be arranged individually. There was only one long, skinny stone platform, equipped with benches on either side. They ate thai (because if the cast of 221B wasn't going to get takeout for their troubles the very least they were going to do was get catering from the same restaurant), which was positioned on a small buffet at the foot of the stone. Accompanying this was a drinks cart, heavily supplied with wine for those who wished to drink everything away.

Most of the wine, Molly pretended not to notice, was gifted from Mycroft. He actually did care about the two men, though his methods of expressing this were clearly lacking. Wine was what he could do, a token of good will without a big gesture.

She's not even ashamed to confess to the consumption of three plates worth of food from the buffet. She had rarely eaten at their favorite food haunts, but she could see why they ordered thai so often. The meal was  _delicious_.

Maybe that was just the wine talking, though. It's entirely possible, after three glasses.

About thirty minutes in, Greg stood up and tapped on his glass with his spoon. Many people were confused by this, as there hadn't seemed to be any reason to interrupt the endless eating. However, the traditional speech of the best man wasn't delivered yet, and it had been proposed that it be given in the middle of the brunch so everyone would already be silent and stuffing their faces. Unorthodox, yes, but wasn't everything revolving around John and Sherlock?

"A little late, I know, but as best man, I'd like to say a few words," Lestrade started, holding out his cup. "Now the internet had told me that the correct format for a best man's speech is as following: come up with a good opening line, thank any other speakers, congratulate the couple, praise the bride while making cracks on the groom, read messages from those who couldn't make it, and then quote something insightful before proposing a final toast. I don't know if the rest of you noticed or not, but clearly that's not going to happen. Much of that outline doesn't fit our situation - Sherlock certainly doesn't strike me as a blushing bride, anyways - and I'm nowhere near clever enough to invent an original, funny opener. Nobody else has really spoken before me, either, except the couple in question - thanks for saying your vows, I guess, or this would have been awkward." Most of the guests smiled at that. Mike, from down the table, gave him a thumbs up. "Congratulations, then, to Sherlock and John for having remained in eachother's company for an intense twenty plus years without killing eachother or going entirely insane. That alone is phenomenal - it's wonderful that you've made it here. We all couldn't be happier for you." Greg straightened up and cleared his throat. "I guess I can't really think of the right words to say. I'm rubbish at words, really. Probably because the best man is supposed to be the best friend of the man getting married, and though I'm serving as John's today, I know without a doubt that your best friend is the person sitting next to you. I'm just a stand in, though I do think I've gotten pretty close to you both over the last several decades of camaraderie. You won't find two crazier, intelligent, hard working, incredible men anywhere else in the world, and even though I'm just John's filler for today, I'm honored to be chosen. John, you're a great man and a great friend, and I wish you the best." Another short pause ensued in which Molly's husband caught his breath. He glanced over at her, and she lifted the corners of her mouth in encouragement. He appeared relieved at the prospect that he was doing alright. "I find myself in the situation where I have very few embarrassing stories on John and far too many for Sherlock - " Mycroft, from his position next to his mother and Harry, snorted loudly, disguising the undignified sound beneath a cough and sneeze. " - so I will bypass that altogether. I'm afraid Mr. Holmes would come into Molly and I's flat and smother me tonight if I attempted to poke fun at him during his own wedding, and I don't want to die just yet. There aren't any messages on the wedding itself, though a few of John's army mates sent personal emails about the occasion. In summation of all of them, they are saying 'good luck'. There's an undertone of 'if it all goes to shit, we can mug Sherlock at 3am', but I doubt that will be necessary. Anyone with eyes can see that he's just as devoted to John as John is to him, and that's the long and short of their relationship. It's not a 'jump' vs 'how high' scenario, but a delicate balance of wills, and even a genius like the one sprouted in Sherlock has to submit now and again. This is the partnership that we all aspire to, and romance is really just an added bonus. I've never seen two people so in tune to one another; it's astounding. As one random person on the internet once said, 'You may only be one person to the world, but you may also be the world to one person.' I believe the same is true today about Sherlock and John." Finally, he raised his glass. "To you. Have a great one."

All eighteen glasses lifted in unison, and all eighteen took careful sips of their drinks.

Molly stood up, and everything fell silent again.

"Yes, sorry you have to listen to another speech. I'm sure you're all very sick of people talking today. Nothing against him, poor dear, but I nearly fell asleep during the officiator's role." Rosamund laughed, Reyna putting a quick hand over her best friend's mouth. "Anyways, I'm sorry to admit this, but I didn't look up any template or ask the web for advice on writing my 'best man' speech. I decided to wing it in terms of structure, to hang the unofficial rules, which is rather odd for me. If any of you have ever met me, you'd know that I'm a very organized, on-book personality, and mostly mild mannered. This was new, so here's to hoping it turns out okay, right?" She took another small swig of her glass. "Sherlock asked me to be his 'best man' at his wedding, and to be honest I was surprised. I've known Sherlock longer than he's known John - and trust me, that's a very long time indeed - and I had yet to find a single person who was capable of keeping up with him, physically and mentally. Even during that period, working with him constantly, he never opened up. It was like he didn't know what friends were, how to make them. I have to say, my initial instinct was to take care of him, as Sherlock is very much a man who needed constant companionship but didn't desire it in the slightest. Neither I nor anybody else who interacted with our genius quite knew how to do that. But John - after a day, he made more progress with Sherlock than anybody had in years. I've never seen two people form a bond so quickly, or, in the times to come, two people undergo so many challenges and still come out on top. If they could withstand all of that, if Sherlock and John could still survive and stick together, than I have no doubts that they'll be able to sustain this marriage. And, even if things get tough, know that you'll always have me, and Greg, and everybody else who showed up. We're with you, no matter what." She smiled at her friends, dimples and all. "Congratulations, and have a wonderful life, boys." Rosamund began clapping, eyes misting up slightly.

"That was really nice, Aunt Molly," she murmured, beaming from across the table. The order of seating had been Clara, Harriet, Mycroft, Mrs. Holmes, Mr. Holmes, Reyna and Rosie, inseparable as they were, John, and then Sherlock on one side of the stone. On the opposite were John's hospital buddies, both of which were talking avidly to Clara and Harriet, Sarah, also known as one of the few people who  _hadn't_  found Mycroft 'a tremendous meddling pain' (Sherlock's words, not Molly's), Mr. and Mrs. Watson, who were getting to know the parents of their new son in law, then Mike, followed by Billy, Ms. Hudson, and finally Molly and Greg, who was facing a very happy looking John.

"Very well said," Sherlock muttered, and she raised an eyebrow.

"Is that a compliment I detect, Sherlock? Marriage has already softened you."

"Never," he responded instantly, frowning without a hint of offense.

"Take it as a good thing. You'll be much easier to manage at work, I believe," Lestrade interjected, grabbing his wife's hand. "But don't worry, you're just as brilliant and irritable as ever, I'm sure."

"Shove off, Gregory." John laughed.

"I think that's the first time you've ever said his full first name correctly, if memory serves," the blonde man noted, a teasing smirk playing over his lips. "Are you actually showing maturity for once?"

"I am a grown adult, John, don't act so surprised."

"I never said I was."

"You didn't need to. I know you."

"Well, drat. You got me there." John gets up to get more noodles, and for once, Sherlock is the one chasing after him. Frankly, she's never seen two people so glad to be bickering, so glad to simply  _be_. It's beautiful, really.

A lot has changed in the last few years for Molly Lestrade nee Hooper.

It's more than okay, though, in her book.

* * *

Sherlock Watson-Holmes has been Sherlock Watson-Homes for exactly one hundred eighteen days, eleven hours, and twelve minutes.

He doesn't see much of a point, actually.

The name, for one, is almost completely ceremonial. Watson-Holmes is a bit of a mouthful, actually, and it rolls over his tongue in an unnatural way. He knows he must become accustomed to it sooner or later, and with a little time, logic dictates he will learn to take the title in stride as an everyday occurrence.

In the meantime, it is large and bulky and inordinate, as well as unnecessary. He had grown used to 'Holmes' - it had an acceptable atmosphere of mystery while still being solid, relatively brief and to the point, and easy for most people, the imbeciles they may be, to spell. However, he did not need to be called 'Watson-Holmes' in order to officiate his marriage. Everyone they interact with already knows that he belongs to John, anyways, so there was little use in adapting his given name.

John's lips quirk up, slightly, when Sherlock is referred to as Watson-Holmes. It's a minuscule change, wrought from a mixture of amusement, pleasure, and fondness, but one that makes him seem all the brighter, all the  _warmer_ (Warmer. It makes no sense, that phrase. Body temperature changes and reactions are regulated by hormones and chemical impulses, not  _people_. This is basic fact. However, John makes everything better, and this is also an indisputable fact. Perhaps the motivators cancel out one another?). It's as if the doctor's smiles, his thoughts are seeping through his skin.

Sherlock, though, is clearly not the only person with a new name.

"You don't have to, of course, Ro," John had explained. "But I'm updating mine, and if you want to, the option is available. Having a famous family name associated with you probably would be an advantage further down the road."

"Please, John, it's a shallow formality at best and she probably has no interest in any of the paperwork following. What difference does it make if we've all got Watson and Holmes mashed together as our last names?" Sherlock had spoken up while crouched above a bunsen burner, observing how organs with different calcifications reacted under immense heat and stress. Perhaps this made him more open to unsheilded disagreement, as only half of his attention was being put into the conversation and very little effort was expended on maintaining social graces.

"It doesn't make a difference at all. I just figured we could give our daughter the option," he had retorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "I know  _you_  don't give a damn."

"It's pointless. It's just a contrived notion carried around for decades that says you should change your name after you wed."

"Excuse me, I might be wrong, but isn't the question meant for me?" Rosamund interrupted, sighing dramatically.

"Yes, Rosie, I'm sure Sherlock is very sorry for jutting in," John murmured, sending a pointed look in the genius' direction. An impossibly small shrug, as was customary, was the only response. "And there's no pressure to decide anytime soon. But, if you'd like to be called 'Rosamund Watson-Holmes' on official documents, then we can arrange for that." The teenager stood up and pressed a kiss to the doctor's cheek.

"Daddy, of course I'd want to change my name." She smirked as she walked to the stairs, going up to her room. "Wasn't I a Watson-Holmes already?"

So, their daughter is following them, as she has in all other areas of life. It is less surprising than he would care to admit, given the nature of her future career choice. She and Reyna, since their first traipse into 'The Foul Fouls', as John has nicknamed it, had been surprisingly effective in their personal investigations. And, what with uni right around the metaphorical corner and the prospect of professional partnership on the table, he has no doubt that the two will begin hunting for suitable flats. You cannot live with your parents forever, even at 221B.

Besides, their line of work was a heavily demanding profession. Rosamund would soon need more space than just her room; she will need a full office and laboratory for cases and equipment storage, and her own way of storing and analyzing data in depth. And, if Reyna was to be on hand at all times, than she would require a bedroom right next door. It's the most efficient way to have full access to someone at any time.

But, of course, this was all the future, and speculation about that insipid and unnecessary name alteration, no matter how much John and Rosie seemed to like it. Right now, this moment - that's fairly alright, shockingly.

There is a murderer at large - isn't there always, though, in this crime-riddled city - and he's been pouring over the case files for the last half hour. His Watson (Watson- _Holmes_ , for the last time - he really must get used to it) is up again, brewing tea in a new peppermint blend that he has been particularly fond of. Frankly, Sherlock cannot fathom why this is - he enjoys tea greatly, but this variant of peppermint is hardly different from any other brand, but John has declared it 'the best'. Then again, John has also declared him the best for quite a while, and he hasn't figured that mystery out either. He never wants to.

The tea is nearly done, the kettle warm and letting boughts of steam loose in an almost cheerful fashion, and John is poorly humming as he lines up two old mugs. He pours in the liquid, letting it settle at the bottom and slosh around, sizzling. The cream disappears in after it, the rich whites churning until they are folded into a new color entirely, lathered in the aromas of mint. Lastly, sugar is added to each, sinking in with a satisfying plop, and John stirs each one with a spoon.

There's something magic about it, these golden afternoons. There is something special about loosing yourself in the work, letting the thrill of an unsolved mystery race up your spine, and something particularly appealing about the light catching through the drapes, illuminating everything ordinary with watercolor outlines and traces of silver. There is something incredibly entrancing about the way John makes their tea, no different than usual, but vibrant and intriguing all the same now. Tea is not just tea - it is a part of the organism, the beast known as the golden afternoon, and sharing them with John, watching the silly ring on his finger glint brightly, makes it all the more brilliant.

Waxing poetics, maybe, but this is one of the few areas of life where he indulges in fine words and beauty for the sake of beauty. The other is in music, in the long and sometimes brutally honest notes he coaxes from the violin when all of London is asleep, but that was different. Those were private symphonies, unique to Sherlock Holmes. But anyone, anyone at all, can capture the golden afternoon under the right circumstances, and that is what makes them so interesting. Perfection is rarely achieved in such open doses.

"This one's yours, Sherlock," John says, the words like quicksilver slipping through the air. He sits next to him, his hair catching fire through the augmented sunbeams from the window. He is smiling as he hands him a mug - bright blue, much like John's eyes - and Sherlock Holmes smiles back for no real reason at all. "How far have you gotten?

"I'm fairly certain the wife did it. It all depends on whether or not the family owns a record player," he says, crossing his hands over his knees. "And, naturally, whether or not that hypothetical record player has its needle or not. It's crucial to the incrimination of the woman." John laughed, a warm, hearty sound that lit up the room.

"Should I even ask how you came to that conclusion based on a picture of the corpse and a couple of files?"

"You could, but the explanation might take longer than it is worth repeating. You'd almost certainly get lost in the fine details," he mused, waving him off and sipping the tea. It actually was quite good - perhaps he'll go along with John's favoritism of the branding, just this once.

"Fair enough. And where's Rosie?"

"She ducked out when you went to the bathroom. She traveled over to Reyna's for the afternoon; she mentioned something about giving her violin lessons."

"Some days I worry she's going to turn out exactly like you. She even took up the same instrument," he said, leaning back into his usual chair with his cup in hand.

"What's wrong with that?" Holmes questioned, raising an eyebrow. Watson shrugged.

"Not a thing. But bloody hell, it will make life more difficult for her down the road. She chooses to live in the shadows of London, chasing strangers at the crack of dawn - it does terrible things to your diet and sleep schedule, I have to admit."

"If it's any consolation, she doesn't berate her partner constantly yet." John's beam went from soft to unbelievably wide.

"Yet?"

"Yet. I'm almost confident that the path towards the satire will hit her soon." John got up, kissed him on the forehead, and took the case file, putting it back on the surprisingly clean kitchen counter.

"Let's hope not. We skipped the teenage rebellion phase, so bypassing 'jaded towards life' in its entirety shouldn't be too much to ask for."

"Quite, John." Just like that, there was comfortable silence again, blanketing and almost drowsy in its languid atmosphere. It almost -  _almost_ , mind you - made him want to take a nap.

Then a swift opening of the door broke the calm, accompanied by a 'hello, brother mine' and the unmistakable click of an umbrella on the floorboards.

Mycroft, then. Always an unwelcome surprise.

Sherlock made no move to get up to greet his brother. He ignored him, as he often did with trivialities he didn't care for and yet couldn't dispel entirely. And, though he was family, his tenancy to prod into one's personal matters was much akin to the attitudes of a persistent splinter refusing to be removed.

A splinter, actually, was quite a wonderful metaphor for Mycroft's coexistence with Sherlock Holmes' affairs. Perhaps a thorn in one's side though, was more fitting - a thorn was a far greater nuisance, and slightly wider around the base.

"Mycroft, I didn't know you were coming," John said, putting down the newspaper he had picked up and shooting a glance at his significant other. "Was I supposed to know anything, or . . . "

"I wasn't informed, either," Sherlock answered, still pointedly looking away from his relative. "How peculiar."

"Nice weather outside, brother dear," sniffed the eldest son anyhow, not the least bit put out by the common disdain Sherlock displayed. "Perfect for a stroll, and 221B isn't so very far."

"Rubbish. You wouldn't go out for a stroll if your life depended on it. You enjoy cakes far too much," he muttered lowly, turning towards his companion. "John, I believe Lestrade wants us down at the station. There's work to be done." John sighed, already foreseeing the obvious conclusion, while Mycroft blinked.

"You actually assumed a silly ruse was going to convince me to leave? Sherlock, I do believe you're losing your touch," the man drawled, taking off his coat and folding it over the coffee table. The consulting detective scowled deeply.

"I didn't assume, I hoped. Contrived as the notion may be, if a higher power existed, it would have already deemed fit to eject you from the premises." Mycroft turned to John.

"Do you prefer blueberry or strawberry?"

"What?"

"Muffins, John. I'm sending you a gift basket for keeping my brother from destroying the rest of polite society these last many years. You have earned them in full."

"I sincerely hope you aren't referring to yourself when you mention polite society," the detective called, crossing his arms. Mycroft cheerfully paid him no heed.

"Um, strawberry, if you're serious," the doctor answered, and his partner gave him a look bordering on the incredulous. "Honestly, Sherlock, if you two insist on feuding every time you see eachother and if I have to put up with dismembered heads beneath the cabinets and moldy fingers in the fridge I will at least poach free muffins from your brother." He frowned but didn't object. "Mycroft, since you clearly aren't going to leave yet, would you like some tea? I can make another cup."

"Tea would be marvelous, thank you." He gave a lidded smile towards a disgruntled Sherlock Holmes. "As would a conversation with my brother."

If it was possible, Sherlock's frown deepened.

"Well, I'll be back in just a minute, then," John remarked, getting up. Mycroft shook his head.

"I believe you misunderstand, John. I would prefer a conversation with my brother alone." He braced his umbrella on the floor, hands resting firmly atop it, and the younger Holmes realized that this might be the first time in years that he had seen Mycroft without John at his side.

How dreadful. Much like a terrible exchange at the supermarket - something good for something foul in nature.

Still, Watson looked at him, eyes locked on eyes, silently asking if the consulting detective wanted him to stay anyways. Mycroft be damned, the doctor wasn't going to voluntarily leave Sherlock alone without approval.

It was little things like these that had made the dark haired man fall for his partner in the first place, as odd as it sounded.

He sighed, rolling his eyes, and John nodded and got up. His intrusive brother raised an eyebrow.

"It's fascinating, your interactions. You speak without speaking," he mused, lifting his shoulders and slightly disrupting the suit. "Tell me, how is the good doctor?"

"Perfectly well, as you just observed, no doubt. I was, too, before your impromptu visit," he said, letting boredom and barbs seep into his voice. As always, these qualities were noted by Mycroft but then disregarded.

"Now, Sherlock, who said anything about impromptu?"

"So you admit that you managed to scheme your way into pestering me this afternoon? You probably had to pencil me in before the Prime Minister - I suppose I should feel important."

"Oh, please, deduce away. You  _are_  a detective, aren't you?" the eldest stated, letting lose a rare, rather amused smile, as though a puppy had just performed a trick.

"Consulting detective," he grumbled, but sat up with reluctance and began to talk. "Your shoes have been shined, your hair more put together than usual, the suit is a tint above black - indicative of strength and an air of power, but not so dark that it makes you appear imposing. It's a subtle strategy, typically employed against higher ups in status if not actual power. It's a deference of appearances, yet not wills. You probably  _did_  consult with the Prime Minister before this, actually. And, on that note, you wouldn't decide to stroll outside and wander across London to our flat, of all places. It's sheer common sense. You never choose to do anything without an ulterior motive, and you would certainly never leave caution to the wind in order to go on a  _walk_." Mycroft nodded insightfully.

"Very true, though it wasn't the Prime Minister - I had a lunch meeting with him yesterday. It was the Minister of Defense." Sherlock waved his hand as if dismissing the offending idea.

"There's always something. Insignificant details." He brought his tea cup, which hadn't quite stopped steaming yet, to his lips, taking a careful sip. "But you did come here for something. What do you want?" Mycroft, obviously exasperated, sat down on the couch. He might have taken up residence in John's chair had Sherlock not glared at him so viciously.

"I want to check in, see how you and the Watsons are holding up. As you already stated, John seems to be doing fine."

"That's because John  _is_  fine, Mycroft, do keep up."

"Yes, but are you and John as a group 'fine'? How is your marriage fairing?" he pressed, crossing his legs.

The crossing of the legs meant comfort within a situation, the assurance of further conversation. This was basic human instinct at its finest, the same with blushing as a product of attraction and smiling when one is immensely happy.

Mycroft intended to trap him in something as insipid as a  _chat_.

If he didn't have his occasional moments of usefulness (and if his family - parents  _and_  John and Rosamund - wouldn't be so very dissapointed in him) Sherlock would have certainly murdered his brother by now and hid the body far, far away.

"Our marriage is hardly your business."

"I'm your brother, Sherlock."

"Cain and Able were brothers and there was no love lost between them when favorites were played. Tell me, should I get a knife to demonstrate? We could produce a lovely reenactment." Of course, his meddling sibling only latched on to the unimportant details of that assessment.

"You read the Bible?" Mycroft asked instead, blinking. "But it's theological." As though Sherlock wasn't well aware of this fact. He straightened, anyhow.

"For a case or two, it was necessary. A man used references to chapters in the book to correspond to his murders - it was for research. One of the most alluded to texts in the world."

"Still, you read the Bible. You."

"You sound surprised. Perhaps all the sugar you consume on a daily basis is finally giving you a stroke."

"You know, one of these days you're going to have to come up with a new source of bait material. As genius as you are, brother dear, I believe the rest of London has already grown accustomed to your oh so witty cracks on my physical appearance," the man mused. "Be more creative."

"Troublesome old hag, perhaps?"

"Not much better, but my condolences for trying and flopping. But, again, this is far off track. You're avoiding actual conversing." Sherlock snorted.

"You're just now realizing this, Mycroft? Have the years made you duller as well as larger?"

"And there we are again, your old standbys," he said, not quite sighing but glaring at his brother as if he very much wanted to. "For sake of queen and country, Sherlock, I merely meant to ask if you were okay. If you were alright, still. Things for us are known to . . . degrade, over time." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"You don't seriously mean to insinuate that I  _relapsed_  or injured myself or . . ."

"Wasn't it obvious? I only stopped in for a spot of tea - John is quite good at preparing it - and to see how you were faring." He gestured around the flat vaguely. "If you were happy. If you are content being married to John as opposed to just being whatever it was you were." The consulting detective's lips puckered.

"You're Mycroft. You don't care about my happiness, especially not in romantic relationships. Holmes don't  _have_  romantic relationships." Mycroft did, in fact, sigh this go around.

"I care quite a bit about your happiness, brother mine. Otherwise I wouldn't be here today, or in any of the numerous days past." He clicked his umbrella on the ground in a matter one might classify as indignant. "And regardless of what I think of romance, that hardly matters. It does seem impossible for people like us, yes, and I've certainly never found anyone I could consider as a potential mate," he paused, shivering as though the word alone was nightmarish in nature, "but you have, apparently. Haven't you always been about doing the impossible?"

"John's an anomaly," the dark haired man muttered, settling back into his chair and hiding his self inflicted scrutiny with his tea cup. "Not me. He's . . . "

"Wonderful, I assume you were going to say?" the eldest Holmes interjected, face blank. "Not boring, like the rest of humanity?"

"He's an idiot. He got it wrong when he called me the brilliant one, back when we first met - clearly he didn't realize how brilliant he was." Sherlock blinked, scouring his memories briefly. "He still doesn't see it, some days. But he stays, anyways." Mycroft stared at him. No condemnation, no joy, no twitch or give in his movements. For once, Mycroft was the superimposed British government - cold, analytical, and absolutely unreadable. This made him dangerous.

Mycroft had never truly struck him as dangerous before, despite his influence. He was Mycroft, meddlesome but harmless where Sherlock was involved.

This was different. This was the stoic, unmovable Mycroft that everybody else saw.

"That's all I needed to know, Sherlock." He said, despite his brother's sudden glimpse of a steel backbone, smiling slightly and twisting his umbrella authoritatively. "He's never going to stop staying, either. He loves you."

That had to be the nicest thing he had ever heard his brother say, and it wasn't even a compliment.

"Thank you. I think." Then the consulting detective immediately began to scowl magnificently again, for thanking Mycroft for anything left a rather unpleasant taste in his mouth, much akin to nauseating chemicals in a lab.

"You're welcome. He tells you the same thing, I'm sure. You shouldn't question it, if you start to over-analyze this - John is a man of his word, and Rosamund thinks the world of both of you. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out, but how fortunate for us that we're both geniuses, anyhow." Mycroft got up, sniffing as a new scent had breached his nose. A bloodhound, his brother, when there was food involved. "I daresay the tea is ready."

"Tea. And here I thought you wanted to investigate my marital status."

"As much as I care for you, Sherlock, tea is a high priority."

"Of course you'd think so."

"As if your hands aren't curled around a mug already."

"Here you are," John interrupted neatly, holding out another steaming cup towards Mycroft, the spoon bobbing along inside. "Do you still need me to leave, or are you done conspiring yet?" The dark haired man nodded.

"Please stay, John. I'd much rather be around you than my insidious brother." The corner of the doctor's lips quirked up.

"Mmm. Yes, well, you didn't marry Mycroft, did you? Clearly spending forever in his presence wasn't your plan."

"I'd rather drown, I think."

"Or jump off a building? I'm fairly certain you'd manage to survive." The blonde settled into his chair, looking absolutely  _right_  there. He belonged in that silly overstuffed thing, right aside of Sherlock.

It was where he should be seated for the rest of their lives.

"Low blow," the genius remarked, stirring his drink absentmindedly. He wasn't upset at all.

"Oh, you've delivered far better." Sherlock smirked in response.

"Naturally. Someone has to put you in your place."

"Why, Sherlock, are you talking to yourself again?"

"Good, then, you are capable of making comebacks. I was beginning to wonder."

"No, seriously, why are we married? How did we even remain civil for this long?" The consulting detective shrugged.

"Logic alludes this, doesn't it?"

"Yup." The both sipped their beverages again, this time in unison. Mycroft, from his quiet holding on the couch, carefully watched them, looking down at his glass and frowning when he realized it was empty after only five minutes.

The posh Holmes sighed, got up, and adjusted his suit jacket, tugging the sleeves back into position, though they had been impeccable as always.

"The tea was spot on as usual, Watson. I'd best be going." He stamped down his umbrella as if this was finalized.

"Actually, it's Watson-Holmes now," Sherlock corrected, swallowing a swig of tea. "Do try to remember." Mycroft paused.

"Watson-Holmes? You're actually using that ridiculous name?" he asked, brow furrowing. "I honestly thought you hated it."

"John likes it, and I'm John's. Even Rosie seems to have an affection for it. I suggest you grow used to it," he answered, and perhaps, if one looked hard enough, they could observe the tinge of pink coloring the back of his ears.

A stupid, entirely biological affliction. 221B could be ever so drafty this time of year, you know.

"Well, then," the government official said, a grin slowly eating away at his face. "Marriage certainly has changed you. Have a good afternoon, Mr. Watson-Holmes, and try not to muck everything up too soon. The separation paperwork alone would be a nightmare." Encouraging, as ever.

"Which one of us are you talking to now?" John questioned, almost amused.

"Both." And just as he had arrived, he had left, leaving the flat with a bang of the door and the click of fine leather shoes.

"What was all that about?" John finally voiced aloud the thought that had arisen since Mycroft Holmes came in, as expected. John was very straightforward, and much like clockwork. A brilliant, very friendly, wool-jumper-wearing machine.

How ridiculous, that concept, but how very fitting.

"I've no idea," Sherlock simply replied instead of giving an actual response, flicking out his violin and setting down the cup. "Mind if I play for a bit?" John, surprised that Sherlock would ever ask permission for anything having to do with his music, merely smiled once the shock has set in.

"As if anybody in London could stop you from playing. Where was that question at four this morning?" The detective grinned back, relaxing all of his numerous features, and he appeared years younger.

He strummed the strings in no particular fashion, gliding over each line with his bow like one skims the crests on waves, and John leaned back into the cushions, the paper in one hand and the tea in another. They enjoyed the remaining time before Rosamund came back in a companionable haze, a solid tether filled with billowing curtains, music crafted from memorabilia, and the press of sunlight through the windows as page after page of newspaper was scoured.

A golden afternoon, re-secured despite intrusions.

And Sherlock Holmes (Watson-Holmes, really) was satisfied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was the bulky first installment of the ending scenes. I'm trying to do the conclusion justice and I really hope I'm succeeding thus far, even if it is total fluff at the moment. Sorry, by the way, if it seems overly sappy. I just wanted to produce something happy, as it's universally acknowledged that for every one happy conclusion there is a dozen ones off screen that aren't nearly so good. Real life isn't nearly as kind to its characters as the media would like to let us believe, but here is my little corner of sanity. I can do as I please, and so I choose to give them something sweet, something reasonably intelligent and intriguing but without the pitfall. It's not so much a 'happily ever after' as it is the promise that they lived, and that's sometimes better. After all, normal is boring.   
> And, of course, there is still something to be finished.   
> The next part of the epilogue will (hopefully) be coming out next week. I swear, I've labored over it for months and it's still at a disappointing 5.2k words. However, I'm steadily adding to it again. Hopefully my readers on fanfiction.net will be pleasantly surprised when the story finally marks itself as 'complete'.   
> I have visions of grandeur for a sequel centering around Rosamund, but for now the next page will have to satisfy anyone still curious about her as I have a knack for procrastination, multiple other things to finish, and only a fuzzy idea of the future plot. It will happen eventually, though, and when it does I hope that the same fans will be eager to read about the next adventures of the Watson-Holmes spectacle. I know that I, for one, am looking forward to it.


End file.
